


liebling & tänzer

by NowWeOwnTheNight



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: And basically everyone else - Freeform, Crack, Dancing, Modern AU, Multi, Musicals, Uni AU, [whispers] soft-punk!lipton, a bit of existentialism, also everyone else is hella gay because fuck you that's why, and malarkey, as is lieb, ay, even if he almost atomises the school, except kitty/harry, he's a bit of a piece of shit but he'll turn himself around [and gueSS WHO FOR!], in practically every character bc tru, kinda abusive!spiers, lip is the smallest pebble, lots of self-consciousness, malarkey loves him just the way he is, muck is a crazy scientist-inventor as you will see in chapter 4, nixon is troubled, really really silly, they are the bestssssss, this is a shitshow have fun, trans!roe, twice, well no one is together yet but the relation tags will happen eventually, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4296006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowWeOwnTheNight/pseuds/NowWeOwnTheNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Spiers!”<br/>“How did you get my number?”<br/>“Do you know a guy-”<br/>“Webster. It’s Liebgott. It has always been Liebgott.”<br/>“It is fucking not, I swear, this is another one of Kitty’s fucking tricks, you need to help m-”<br/>“I shit you not, it is Joseph fucking Liebgott, now leave me alone.”<br/>Spiers pegs his phone in the same direction as his foam stress ball. Only problem is, where his stress ball bounces back, his phone does not.</p><p> </p><p>Long story short, things get ugly, everyone is special, and everything is awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're Alright, Though

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt ‘Someone gave me a fake phone number and it’s actually yours’, as well as ‘I work at the animal shelter and you always come in to pet the cats when you’re sad’ for the Nixters side of stuff… the rest is general Uni AU and I didn’t really plan this well at all but eh \o/
> 
> *OLD SUMMARY* In which Webster is a troubled dance instructor, Liebgott thinks he isn’t a punk but he’s actually a punk and his life is really not funny because he’s supposed to be getting his Honors in medicine and yet he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut when Katy Perry is on the replay, or his eyes off of the sound production school, nor his pen from signing up for Swan University’s production of West Side Story.  
> What few, harsh words they exchange in passing at the audition cut deeper than Lieb’s ingrained self-dissatisfaction and Web’s desire to speak out for once, rather than cheering along in the background.
> 
> However, the mismatched pair find them falling for one another via text when Winters tries to give Webster his new number over a crackly phone-booth connection.

_“…Baby, now that you’re gone…”_

“…Left foot slide, chest- _chest_ …”

_“…I can’t stand shit love songs…”_

“…shoul-der pop and- slide, right, spin, ar-oud, no wait shit…”

_“…missing you, I don’t really give a crap…”_

“…feet together, left _out_ , right _out_ , and kick- FUCK!”

**wham!**

“OW!”

“Jesus, Web. Don’t be so fucking hopeless.”

“Fuck of, Dick, stop- stop fucking up the lyrics! I’m trying!”

“Mhm. And, I’m sure, trying involves tripping over your own feet on the second verse for- what is it now… um –twenty repetitions?”

“Piss off- ah, shit, my elbow!” He flings an accusing finger at an impartial Winters; nestled atop the row of lockers nailed above the mirrors. Nothing but a mess of rust coloured hair peaking above a murky green parka is visible of the singer. Inspecting his elbow, he presses his freezing fingers against the swelling; angry red, aching when he attempts to flex it. “Look at what you did!”

His friend kicks his legs free from the nest of winter wear, swings his legs innocently, his tracksuit pants and untied laces rustling soothingly in the frigid air of the studio. Early evening sunlight glistens, fighting through frosted, orange-tint glass windows, laying bars of sunset across the room’s length.

“I am singing…” Dick manages to sound both reserved and stately at once, “…Not beating you up, you’ll do well to remember… and without me, there is no performance. Which, might I remind you, is tonight-”

“Yes, and-”

“May I also point out that, seeing as it’s eighteen-oh-thr-”

“For shit’s sake, stop reminding me about things!” Webster argues, rubbing his elbow harsher, mutters under his breath: “Swear to fuck, that’s all you’re fucking good for.”

All of a sudden, the world is blanketed in a dense, forest-y jade. Plastic fabric shimmers over his face, the back of his neck, curtaining his bare shoulders.

“Hey. I _am_ singing for you and your crew, right?” After a quick pause, his gruff words as quiet as ever, Winters slides off of the lockers and lands noiselessly on the rubber matting; an unimaginable act in the heavy leather combat boots he’s got on. “Or- actually, you know what, Web, forget it, I’m going to the store, I’ll see you at nineteen-hu-”

“Oh- _ho_ , no you don’t!”

Web is up to block the door in a flash, injuries forgotten. Winters’ too-large parka drapes around his shoulders, brushing calligraphic patterns through the sheen of sweat he’d worked up as he danced. His elbow stings when Winters strolls through the arm he’d barely braced against the door frame. “I’m _sorry_ , okay?! Just- don’t- God damn it…” Clomping barefooted down the stairs with as much grace as a whale in a desert, Web chases after his ghost-like friend.

 

***

 

August casts the ugliest skies known to man- in addition to filling the hearts of Swan University’s students with a collective sense of dread. Early cherry blossoms and lighter mornings regardless, the eighth month of the year is just the _worst_. In the aftermath of mid-year break, going back to work and settling in for another semester of courses obliterates the passion of the students who are studying a subject they dislike.

Or, the students working towards honors in a career they hate.

 _Or_ , the students who spent their high school avoiding their dreams and _somehow_ ending up Dux of the School and enrolled in the most work-heavy school of study, studying to join the highest-paying profession.

Or, Joseph Liebgott.

And August is the epitome of depression because… not only is it the eighth month and not only is it the eve of a school-wide bout of worthlessness and not only is it shitty weather and outdoor lessons on a windy day and _not_ _only_ is it Joseph Liebgott that makes everything at least thirteen times worse and furthermore makes everyone he passes want to neck themselves because of his constant bemoaning of the most sought-after medical course he _doesn’t_ _want_ … but because it also marks two weeks until Muck’s best friend’s birthday. And he never knows what to get him, because Malarkey always states the same thing, year in, year out: ‘I have everything I’ve ever wanted, you don’t need to get me anything’. Which is.

The exact opposite of inspiring.

And that pisses him off to no end.

[And then… of course… there are the school musical auditions. An event Liebgott practically cries over, even though auditions reach campus-wide.]

That’s how Skip Muck sees it, at least.

 

“Larkeyyy, whyyyyy...” A devastated, lifeless Liebgott groans from his place in the tree, both boy and tree creaking in unison, diminishing any potential brainstorming time Muck had climbed the tree in the hopes of getting. The bearded crow that had perched inches from Joe’s arm, expecting his somehow still-warm, limp body to be in fact _lifeless_ , squawks in surprise and takes off in a flurry of blue-black feathers. One of his obsidian, shining primaries flutters into Liebgott unwashed hair. It blends in perfectly, so he leaves it alone.

From a little further down, Muck snaps a twig and huffs:

“Fuck, not this again.”

“I ain’t punching ‘im.” Malarkey- the boy perched at the tippity-top of the oak and looking out to the setting sun, wielding three brushes and a pallet looking as though a unicorn slobbered all over it -grunts back. “You punch ‘im.” He pauses long enough to tug his woolen beanie further over his ears, unknowingly pasting acrylic colours that echo the colours of the sunset and wind and city all over the black, knitted hat.

“Oi, I did it last time. I ain’t doin’ it neither.” Muck whines back, sitting up and scrabbling into action, scaling the tree like a verbose, plaid-wearing lizard. Ascending, he uses the smear of maroon on his best friend’s cheek as an excuse to fumble and claw for a sturdy purchase so far up in their tree; he palms across thin stubble, a familiar scar running vertically over a caterpillar eyebrow, coming to a resting place on a defined cheekbone. His hand rests there, cupped around the right side of Malarkey’s face with the pretense of balance. Muck snorts to himself.

Snatching the art tools away, he motions for Malarkey to follow him down. “I’ll punch ‘im if you punch ‘im.”

Together, they hover over Liebgott’s heavily breathing form. Shooting Muck a daring glance, Malarkey curls his pinky through a swathe of ruddy, pink acrylics and flicks it at Lieb- it lands on his nose, already blushed in the icy air, and underlines one of his closed eyes, heading for a pointed, inflamed ear. Muck and Malarkey share a smirk.

 _Devilish_ , Muck thinks, _devious, perfect, favorite, best._

“Deal.” Malarkey murmurs back, and both men swoop further down to reach their friend. Slowly, at a whisper misplaced in the gusts of winter air, he counts: “One. Two…” They draw their fists back as one and jab forward, punching Joe hard in the ribs and stomach.

He flinches, curls a little at the pain, before flopping back out- sprawling impossibly further over the height-thinned branches. A glob of the pink paint oozes into his dark hair.

Muck slams his head into the withering trunk of the tree to outweigh their defeat, whereas Malarkey reclaims his paintbrushes and board without a word, slithering up the to tree’s summit.

Truth is, both men punched him last time. Every time Lieb gets in a mood, he climbs a tree and lies there. Probably hoping for it to fall and crush him so that he’ll die, thereby not having to deal with his life, but that’s all Muck can go off these days. Lieb rarely gushes as he used to- back when the first year of his degree was innocuous and boring… when he wasn’t caught up in such a downward spiral as he is now. This, Muck can reason, is the best semblance of enjoyable consistency in Joe’s life.

“Uuurgghhhhhh…” Is the only gurgling response the two get from the despairing honors student.

“Come _on_ , Lieblow!” Muck cries, giving in, slamming his forehead harder against flaking bark. “Grow the fuck up ‘n change to preforming arts! Can’t be that hard, honestly!”

“It isn’t!” Lieb whinges, drawing one forearm over his mouth and the other over his eyes. Paint scatters onto the mottled grey sweater sleeve, coating his brow in the process. “I asked Comp this morning, _again_ , and he said the same thing, _again_ , but I c _an’t_!”

“Fuckin’ _do_ it before I do!”

“But y’can’t act for shit!” Malarkey sings from above them, small splatters of violet raining between the budding leaves of their oak. “He-” A considerable wad of partially dried lavender arcs down to land square on Lieb’s open palm, “-can. Lieb can also sing. And y’can’t do that, either. Umm… What is it that y’can do, Skippy? I forget…”

Muck breaks the branch supporting Lieb’s right leg with ease and javelin-style tosses it upwards. There’s a shriek that neither Joe nor Muck respond to.

“I’m the next Leonardo Da Vinci, y’asshat, so shut it!”

“I’m the next Leonardo!”

“No, y’not! Leonardo can paint _and_ invent. _And,_ he understands sciences.” Muck yells back, checking on Joe hurriedly to make sure their screaming match isn’t freaking him out. That happened before. Was _not_ a fun time. Thankfully, Joe’s reaction to their bickering is a tiny smirk- a hint of his dreaded dimples pushing apart his grey and red cheeks, cracking a sliver in his armor. “Check the boxes!”

“One!” Malarkey yells- up, not down, so Muck imagines he’s got his beautiful, strong neck arced, curled back as he goes about cursing the sky from which he fell -because Muck is right, he’s _always_ right.

“And I’ave hmm, lemme see, oh- _TWO._ And, reference of mathematics!!” He shouts a little louder than necessary to avert his own mind’s attention from the boy overhead, “ _Lieabello_ : is two greater in numerical value than one?” A silence falls into their quarrel- Liebgott rubs his palms over his pinched appearance in exasperation, in a vain attempt to regain feeling in his cheeks and nail-bitten fingertips, in an tidal force of fondness and emotion towards his best friends that he does _not_ want to confront.

“You’re both fucking insane and you never help at all, why do I even bother hanging around you dickweeds?”

“That’s a _yes_ , if I’ve ever heard one!” Crows the shortest boy to the rolled-up trousers benched above his head, hi-fiving the back of Lieb’s hands with fervor unmatched by the other two. Lieb feebly punches after Muck, flapping at the air and revealing his paint caked face.

“Which you haven’t!” Comes the teasing, melodious cackle once more.

“Ey, Malarkey!” Muck shouts, this time to nothing in particular, which is not uncommon for the tiny man, before launching into a hasty rant. “Don’tcha hate it when Lieb’s in moods like this- which is _always_ –an’ just want ‘im to get his sad-ass shit together an’ quit the stupid meds school thing he’s got goin’, become a Broadway singer, ‘cause he’s our bestest friend and you love ‘im very very much and only wan’the best for ‘im?”

“Yes.”

“So, that’s a yes for me, _and_ a yes for _you_ , Liebish! Go talk to Compton.”

“Leave me alone.” It’s all drawn out, sent ringing through the frosty campus.

“ _Go_ \- I shall _drag_ _you_ if y’don’t!”

“Don’t think ‘e won’t.” Malarkey warns, a tone of affection in his voice. “He dragged me outta ceramics one time. Real embarrassing, I hadn’t-”

“Ack! Okay, I’ll talk to him!” Joe spits, as petulant as a child when it comes to his friends believing they know how he’s better off. “But I’m not making any promises!!” He rolls out of the tree as he would from his bed in their three-person campus apartment, the only difference is that here, he lands on his feet, and doesn’t instantly begin bitching about the unfairness of the world. Oh, and also that he’s at least five feet higher up.

“Tha’s my boy! Playing hard t’get!” Muck whoops, watching the beanpole of a man stride away. Malarkey sighs, barely a snuffle of winter wind, and leans forward to his shins to continue his portraiture.

“God damnit, Muck.”

“Ey, fuck off, _Ezio_.”

“Stop bein’a filthy git, _Leo_.”

“Need any help?”

“Ac-tually, couldja go grab me sommore purple from arts? Run-in to someone, tell ‘em I sent ya.  Sun’s settin too fast.”

“Like always…”

“Never enough time! Stupid earth, stupid.”

“Heh.”

_Stupid. Never enough time. There’s never enough time, with you._

The further he gets from the base of the tree, the heavier his feet fall- every step dropping lower, pulling him farther underground. Faded mosaics lining the path into Swan’s art center are near eye level by the time he drags his hefty deliberations into the redlamp-heat of the building. The rustling of hanging prints made sounds like people in his head; chatting, whispering ink-blotted words about him, his thinking; his own inklings splotched, unwanted on his look. Purple resonates with his soul: violet, violent, unable to escape or be shown. Unexploited, unused, unsure, disabled from attaining truthfulness… no matter what philosophical words he throws at it, it all still hurts, it hurts so greatly. He’s glad that the colour is in abundance, coming in tiny tubes or huge tubs, and thinks he’d like to be painted entirely in the stuff- turned into a landscape, full of honesty; authentic mind seeped onto his skin –painted by Malarkey, of course. Authenticity is not a word he’d use to describe his exterior for Malarkey, though.

_Absurdity, incongruity, nonsense._

_You’re a producer, not a poet._

Then- lighter and lighter as he climbs further from the ground, and towards Malarkey, litre bottle stuffed down his button up.

 

***

 

“If you so much as take a step outside that gate, Richard Winters, I will personally go down to the kennel and guard it so you have nowhere to go for comfort! I will cut off all your connections and ties and networks until you have no option but to sing for me. _Don’t_ fuck with me, Dick, I know you too well! I know all your dirty secrets! Think I won’t spill them?! Fucking try me!”

Winters halts at the car lot’s exit, smiling unthinkingly as thoughts of Larkson and Son’s Animal Shelter fill his consciousness unchecked... Or, more importantly, of the man who works late shifts every day but Monday. Of crooked, yellowish teeth and dry lips. Of clay colored eyes, shaving nicks, corroded lyrics. Bottles of Vat-69 behind pound bars; wide and calloused fingers ruffling tawny, floppy ears. Home-cut, ratty, midnight deep hair. Aftershave smell and ace tattoos wearing tiny crowns.

“Or I’ll just go to the park.”

Dick doesn’t want to go to the park.

He wants to waste away the night with that unnamed, half-wasted man who claims he can talk to the dogs, and knows the allegiances and battle plans of the cat armies in their wing of the pound. The man who can whistle to each type of bird, who is perfectly content to let six ferrets wander all over his squat, wide frame, and who can drape the hostile one-eyed snake around his shoulders and lull her to sleep with placid rocking and whiskey fumes. He wants that uncertainty that the man brings- whether the night will be emptied of doubt and worry, a collection of drunken cackles and butterfly-bumps of wrists and elbows… or whether it’ll be filled with slurred memory, brushing fingertips and nothing more, humorous tales of disheartened pasts sounding too realistically unrealistic to be genuine.

“I will _blow up_ _the park_.” Webster argues in total deadpan. Catching up too his fleeting brother, Webster looks back to check the time on the school’s old church tower. Half an hour. Nothing to worry about- he whirls to face Winters, furrowing his brow to show he means _business_. What he gets is a contentious eyebrow raise- ‘why should I help you? Besides being your best friend, I’d much rather watch you dance from the crowd than in the stage corner with a placement that causes a shitty depth perception’ in return. Webster rolls his eyes: ‘you know it’ll mean more to me if you’re there, singing…’ and then a lip bite: ‘please, next time, maybe. And, you can sing that Crywolf song.’

‘And something from Disney’ Winters squints.

‘Fine. Please??’.

A frown, lip quirk, and indistinct sigh he knows means ‘fine, I’ll do it.’

Webster settles for apologetic over smugness, taking Winter’s faraway, borderline morose attitude to heart.

“You know I’d never betray your trust like that, yeah? I would never tell everyone your deekest, darpest secrets.”

“Of course not, _Kenny_.”

“Don’t you fucking call me that, _Richard!_ ” He shouts with a stunted laugh.

“ _David_.”

“Say one more and I’ll stick up posters of your face with ‘Winter Wonderland’ captioning it. As well as your number. Maybe I’ll even put them on those tear-off tabs so people can-”

“Piss off.” Winters’ response is one of his rare giggles, shouldering Web with unnecessary lightness. Even though it’s feather light, Webster is thrilled; must be a hell of a day for Winters to get so close and tactile. It’s just exceptional, is what it is. Nothing caused Winter’s ardent aversion of physical contact… it’s just one of those ‘Dick’ things Webster has grown to love. He shrugs his shoulders and leads the way back through the car park.

“Eh. As if the world is ready to know just how kinky y-” It’s just Webster’s luck that today, Winters is pulling out all the rare cards: amusement, physical contact, and now, play fighting… granted, he happens upon this revelation a beat after his face and front plough into the gritty surface of the lot. “You tripped me, you asshole!” He splutters through grains of dirt and shell shards. “What is _with_ you, today!”

“Singing gets me weird.” He replies softly but not unhappily as he bounces from one foot to the other on their way back into the school grounds, carefully following a stepping stone path only he can see.

“I’ll add it to the list…” Remarks Webster, lewd and accompanied with an over-the-top wink. It’s enough to pull Winters out of his faraway headspace.

“It’s not- ugh-” He snickers, taking off ahead of the dancer. “I’ll see you there, I should probably help set up. You should go make sure your team is all organized or warmed up or whatever you need to do.”

“Yes, commander.”

Winters jogs off, fogging into hiddenness not ten or so meters away, as the man is prone to do. Even in primary, Webster was the class act, the class clown, and Winters was a background kid: a fly on the wall. It’s where he’d met the likeminded, argument eluding, introverted duo of Harry and Lipton, and a crooked-toothed, pimply Babe Heffron.

Not much has changed from primary to university: Winters is still very much a background person, Harry is never far from Lipton, whom still spends eighty percent of his time in the library, and Babe is every bit as shyly charming as he was, minus the acne.

His half-hearted reminiscences are crashed into when a body slams into his back- a shocked grunt, a scuffle of rubber on wet brick, and:

“Outta the way, fuckin’ wall-man.” Whoever it is rumbles, garbled and heated, a tiny squeak of indignancy. Webster twirls about, ready to apologize-

Holy shit.

Spell out every letter, H O L Y   _S H I T_ , and say it at least seventeen more times, then whisper it at three am to yourself and the sickly ceiling, then whine it into a drained beer bottle, then garble it in the shower so hot it stings deep in your chest, then scream it from _rooftops_ , because. His heart is fluttering madly, stomach housing a conservatory of swooping butterflies, blood rushes and pounds behind his temples, everything is upside-down and haywire and his entire body is rendered inoperable-

 _Never_ , in his _entire life_ , had Webster seen a more beautiful, more striking, more _perfect_ human being.

If picture-perfect needed a candidate, here they were: their shoulders- hunched at a painful angle, dragging weighty, unseen wings along the earth behind them- their nose, just on the awkward side of large- their lips, thinned in an internal struggle and turned downwards, but only a bit- their hair, black and untidy with dried paint ran through, an honest-to-god _feather_ sticking out- their face, tense and sour and a mess of pastel and neon and mucky, ugly tones- their legs, frayed and torn skinny jeans doing nothing to hide the thinness there, their stick-like ankles and nonexistent thighs, tiny waist. Not that this appearance of frailty is what puts them in league of total and utter perfection in Webster’s definition, no: it’s how well all the components work together, the finished product. It all makes perfect sense, _usually_. It’s all too often a cause-to-effect, not a foot, not a _finger_ standing out to dot a being with inconsistencies, arbitrary components.

But here…

All he can see is _what_.

And also, _the fuck_.

Maybe more sophisticated words like ‘conundrum’ and ‘enigma’ will turn up once he’s over the fact that _holy shit, I’m seeing a literal art piece right fucking now, what the fuck._

One hand cockily rested on the hip, head tilted to the side and forward so that their brows are forced to raise and furrow intrusively, sharp sweep of shoulders and a thin neck shown by the scoop of the sweater. Stark collarbones. What could this person possibly be up to? What caused the feather, who put the paint on their body, how did it end up on their sweater sleeve? What kind of a person scowls so fragilely? What kind of a person has small chunks of bark and bits of twigs sticking out of the back of their jumper and stuck to their holey, faded jeans?

What kind of a person…

An _asshole_ , as Webster finds out the second the person opens their mouth. A complete, utter asshole.

“The fuck do _you_ want, wall-boy?” Christ, even their voice is the finest music to Web’s ears; the way their accent curls around the vowels, and- “Asked you a fucking _question_ , Wonderwoman. What, leotard too tight?”

Webster resists the urge to tug at his makeshift leggings, to loosen the lycra from his abruptly heated, prickly skin.

 _Oh_.

He’s shirtless, wearing a skintight body suit with the arms tied snugly around his waist, barefooted in mud and-or frost, in front of the closest thing to faultlessness he’s ever encountered.

So, naturally, he gives shit right back to the person glaring so hard he could burn a new pair of nipples into Webster’s chest. In retrospect: _not_ the best idea he’s ever had, so sue him, he’s only fucking _human_.

“It’s a _unitard_ , for your information, you fuck. Nice _face_ \- what, did the unicorn take a shit while you were eating ‘im out? Or what, projectile-vomited at the sight of you”

He swears- he _swears_ on his life –that there’s a flash of dimples when they smirk briefly. Then, it’s right back to a scowling mask.

“ _For your fucking information_ ,” They mock his tone and Webster can’t decide: smile or sneer. He settles on a mildly unimpressed glare, countering their sneer-smirk fuelled by a ferocity that looks abso-fucking-lutely wonderful. “I am, in fact, into _men_ , _wonder-wall_. So stop eyeing me the _hell_ up, I’m a _guy_ , not a piece of fucking _meat_.”

“Oh, and _this_ -” He motions to his crotch, conveniently expressed in his current attire, “Isn’t enough for you, huh?”

“’Women’ doesn’t mean ‘vagina’, you cisnormativepiece of _shit_! Put your fucking foot right into _that_ one- I’m _pansexual_ , as if you’d know what _that_ means, now fucking move along.”

“ _What_ , it’s not like I’m guarding the path or anything, go the fuck around! And I _know_ that, I figured that ‘ _if you_ _were_ in to men’, I gave you no reason to think otherwise -or was that just _you_ being _sexist??_ ”

“… _You_ go the fuck around, you _jerk_!”

“No, you!”

“Get outta my way, _wonderwall_ , or I’ll fucking go _through_ you!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

“Fucking _fight me!_ ” To Webster’s barely concealed surprise, the man rolls his sleeves up to reveal paper-thin forearms wreathed in colorful designs: blocked, pixelated, thick and harsh on the left, and delicate, bare, coiled and warped on the right. “Come _on_ , throw a punch, I fucking _dare_ you, see where it gets you-”

“Webster.” He snaps, harsh to cover how overwhelmingly… _overwhelmed_ he is. “My _name_ is _Webster_.” There’s a feeling, a tightness in his lungs that Winters described once… he can’t remember whether it meant a heart attack or the pull of your heart towards another person… he distinctly recalls having conversations of both topics with Winters, likely close together if Winters found himself feeling such a strong connection with a person other than family- Webster included. Its vice-like grip tightens, choking to hurt but not to kill, and _yes_ , Webster figures, _I think this is the other thing._

“Wonderwall Webster. Fan- _fucking_ -tastic.” He gets growled at, and the hovering, minutely shaking fists lower, doing nothing to lower the debilitating stranglehold on his soul. “Now _beat i_ t before _I_ beat the _shit_ outta you.”

Webster is roughly nine-hundred percent sure he could lift the man over his head and place him in a nearby tree like a postit-note in a paper chase, but the bell of the church tolls, howling ‘seven o’clock’ in sluggish, brassy booms, just as he reasons to the test that theory.

“As _lovely_ as this was, gotta get going...” He smiles, trying and failing to stop his condescending tone. Well, he wasn’t really trying at all, due to the fact that the fraught scowl suits this short, aggressive mystery, and Webster is nothing if not a promoter of exactness. “Run along now _, sunset-face_. It’s past your fucking bedtime, don’t you think?”

The man’s scowl deepens prettily, twitching pink-lavender skin around narrowed, fury-lit, russet eyes. _Beautiful_.

“ _Run along_ , _wonderwall_ , get the fuck outta my sight before I change my fucking mind.”

Webster complies hastily, blushing, knowing that no amount of scowling could erase those half-moons where a dimpled smile cracked the paint.

 

***

 

Lieb made sure to wipe off the dried splatter of acrylic paints before he faced the head of subject allocation… He’s fairly sure there’s a better word for that, but speech won’t exactly be his forte until all traces of Webster are totally and utterly obliterated from his mind. He’s so confused, confused and _angry_ ; and not in his usual, constant ‘pissed-off-ed-ness’, no, this is a new, weird brand of angst that bubbles, boils his heart, resulting in the fumigation of his brain. The only real focus he can manage is on the huge, ticking grandfather clock in the corner of Buck Compton’s office… while he’s sure Buck would simply say it’s going ‘tick-tock-tick-tock’… to Lieb, it sounds more like a rhythmic bunch of cusses with the occasional shriek of ‘why’.

Life’s shit. Life is absolute _shit_ , and he has no idea what to do with it. Hopefully, this’ll be a step in the right way.

“Look. Compton, I know I’ve been-”

“Joseph, you’ve been thinking about this since you first started your degree, I’ve been with you every step of the way. Now, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you many more times, man- I’m _more than happy_ to make the changes for you, and can have Bull with you on his roll in half a week, tops. It really makes no problem at all- remember what they told you in high school? That whatever degree you get into isn’t an endgame? Nothing is set in stone, Joseph. It may feel that way, _you_ may feel that way, but I can assure you that is most certainly is not.”

Liebgott shudders. He hates it when people call him Joseph.

“…Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll-”

“Yeah. Yeah, fuck it, what have I got to lose-” Liebgott falters at his slip up, and Buck beams at him. “Oh, _shit_ , sorry- crap- _fuck_ \- I… _Yes_ , is what I… yeah.”

The whole way to Buck’s office, he had grated his teeth, rubbed his knuckles together, and spat curse after curse in a juvenile rage at the man who calls himself _Webster_. He’s been set on edge by one quick, heated interaction, and he _hates_ it _,_ detests the manner in which it ripped away how perfectly in-control he was; like a rug from under his feet.

…Well. In control of his out-of-control-ness.

Buck only laughs, not bothering to verbally respond. “That’d be great, awesome, thanks.”

“I’m happy for you, Jo, really, I am.” Buck jots something own quickly on a notepad and sticks it proudly to his computer screen. “I’ll pass this on to Bull, as you know is the head of Performing Arts, as soon as possible. Now, off you go- plenty to do. The dance fest is on in the main square, if you’re interested. Big show. Means a lot to the dancers performing.”

“Sure, I’ll take a look.” He won’t. Dancers. _Webster_ will probably be there. He pauses at the door. “And thanks, Buck.”

“For what?”

“For not, you know. Giving up on me, or whatever.”

“Please. If anything, I was about to commit you to the new degree myself.” He looks Lieb up and down, frowning. “Should’ve done it earlier, damn, you’ve changed so much, Liebgott.”

“And that’s bad, is it?”

“Could be.” Buck shrugs. “Could not be. Guess we’ll find out now, yeah?” Lieb can only offer his own shrug in return.

“Cool. Awesome. Thanks again, Buck.”

“Pleasure. See you.”

There’s a sense of liberation in magical proportions the second he exits- as tempted as he is to burst out singing some forgotten melody by Blink 182 or some early Katy Perry, he refrains… barely –and doesn’t get five meters down the path before a dainty holler of “Yo! Liebling!” races up at his left side.

“Fuck off, Genie.” He snarls, quickly morphing his growl into a grin as Gene’s merely widens at his snappish attitude. “How you doin’, huh, Roe? Spiers givin’ you more trouble?” Slinging an arm around Roe in a brief hug, feeling the familiar aching tautness that lies there, they begin to walk the long trek towards the section of Swan’s campus dedicated to student living.

“Oh, fuckin’-” It’s ridiculous how uncommon it is to hear Roe swear, and Lieb is a little taken aback, scarily. He knows from Roe’s many rants and cries that Spiers isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘boyfriend material’… with the excessive smoking and shifty mood changes and callous attitude towards life… but he must’ve done something really _not_ _good_ to piss Roe off this much. “He- _honestly?_ ” Roe squeaks and Lieb thinks that usually, he’d laugh. But Roe’s squealing up a storm, stamping harder down the brick laneway because of it: “He smokes _all the time,_ inside the room. _Inside!!_ We’ve already had _three_ fire alarms because he won’t open a _frigging_ _window_ because it’s ‘too cold’- oh, _please!_ You _walk_ around in the same _frigging_ _tank_ and gym shorts, no matter the season! And no, oh, _now,_ he’s _always_ stinking up the place with _smoke_ and he _tastes_ like smoke and _everything_ smells like smoke and soon _I’m_ gonna start stinking like _nicotine_ and I’m _asthmatic_ so the whole situation is kinda _fricked_ _up_ \- _Lieb_ , help.” He finishes with a huff, toying with the pompom on his milky white beanie, light blue-ish fingers tinged maybe from the cold, maybe from the murk of this post-sunset light that’s seeming to vibrate with distant bass hums and concrete-muted singing. Lieb’s left a little helpless himself, after his encounter with _Mr. Perfect, Obnoxious, and Perfectly Obnoxious_ from earlier, as well as the change to his curriculum he’s yet to judge as a good move or not. But poor Roe is shivering and scowling and his face looks as hardened as his heart must be right now, so he gives it a shot.

Very unlike him; up until a few minutes ago.

He’s been feeling rushes of braveness from the second he slid down the tree, Muck and Malarkey whooping encouragement. Strong enough, with tides and pulls, to make him jump in joy in one second, then curl up and hiss at everything the next. Thank _fuck_ he’d learn enough about himself- granted, he practically destroying himself doing a medicine course that never interested him in the first place in doing so –to push through for an amendment. For a flipside to every downfall and problem his brain throws, in ‘theoretically…’s, in ‘but what if…’s, in crippling overthrows of confidence, enough to make sunshine bitter and prayers sins. The mindless bravery he sees everyone else walk around with makes so much more sense, now that he himself is trying it on for size. Self-assurance: right, that’s was he needed, so he got it- stomping towards Buck’s office, furious and blind and everything he knows he shouldn’t be, knows he needs to shrug off.

As easy as a cloak. Made of all the _shit_ he’d poisoned his brain with. ‘ _Scowl, they’ll go away_ and _step closer, intimidate, shout back’_ and especially ‘ _they don’t care about you, why should you care about them?!’_

It was, as hard as he tried, too impossibly difficult to totally apply this formula of formidability to his friends.

Nevertheless, as light as he felt after that revelation, running into _Mr. Stick in My Ass Abhorrent Fuck_ one-eighty-flipped him, rifling his mind to reclaim that defense, that easy, habitual slur of insults to get people _away_. Regression made him feel like shit, feeling like shit made him feel even more like shit, but becoming so caught up and unable to process too many things at once- _IcandothisIcandothisIcan- unff, what- this fucking asshole- no, okay, be nice… path blocked, need to talk to Buck, just stay cool and don’t be a dick- what- um- how do I talk to gods- no wait what the fuck- is this- are you shitting me- did I insult him first or did he- but I walked into him, so I should apolog– what the FUCK is he wearing why are his pants so tight oh god this would be the worst time to pop a boner fuck- this is bad very bad- quick think about something else- what’s for dinner- maybe they’ve eaten everything and I’ll have to get takeaway again- WHY did I ask him to fight me I don’t want to hit him- he’s too pretty- god damnit stop looking at his abs- FUCK stop looking at his crotch that’s worse, FUCK just leave- why am I calling him wonderwall- I hate that song fucking Oasis is a shit band- okay I’ll leave I’m going- hopefully I never see him again- but he’s dancing he’ll be part of the performing arts program- fuck everything fuck_ -

That was the kicker.

So what if this Webster asshole happened to be on the receiving end of his wrath, it’s not like he attacked the guy for no reason at all… Okay. _Breathe, Liebgott, you got this._

So this whole ‘way of thinking’ requires work. Work he may or may not be willing to put in- _no,_ Lieb frowns at the ground passing quicker and quicker under his feet, purple converses flicking along near him, the distant music growing louder and louder, _I’ll do it. I can do it. Fuck Webster. Absolutely fuck him, him and his leggings, fucking dancer, pompous ass, thinks he’s the best, doesn’t give a shit about me, of fucking course, my face doesn’t look that bad, does it? Does it-_

Shaking himself rather violently, enough for Roe to side-eye him with suspicious, compassionate, welcoming, cobalt eyes- _blue, far galaxies exploding, hatred a nicer shine than happiness, fuck he’s stunning- fuck, get over yourself, Liebgott!!!_

“Whaddya want me to do, Roe?” He starts in a shout, ends in a whisper; a silent plea for Roe to not question why he’d spaced out and gotten increasingly exasperated with the earth blow their feet.

Roe lifts his shoulders in a trembling shrug.

“I dunno, break up with him for me?”

Liebgott shrugs as well, at a loss.

“You guys aren’t even properly dating.”

“We _are_.”

He’s not being helpful at all, but neither is Roe- so, in his eyes, that’s okay. Roe should’ve broken ‘it’ off with Spiers- whatever ‘it’ entailed… all Lieb knows is that partners don’t go against the other’s word unless it’s for their partner’s own good, not just to see them squirm or because it goes against Spiers’ very specific mindset that no one understands. Their relationship, while not exactly or definably harassing or abusive, is very much a toxic one.

“If _that’s_ what dating is, then Kitty and Harry have been married for _four_ _years_ \- _Roe_ , come _on_ , it isn’t healthy.” Roe raises an eyebrow, the kind of smirk that you know means ‘I’m interested I really am but I already know where you’re going with this and would appreciate it if you don’t, solely because I’m not ready’, and Lieb has seen it enough times on the man to know that now is _still_ not the time to talk about it, as dire as it’s getting. “The smoking _and_ him. He’s…” and damn it all, there’s the turned down, vulnerable expression only Roe can pull of so well. Lieb sighs. Sometimes it’s easier to admit defeat; whether that’s on you or the person you’re arguing with, well. Lieb’s not happy to turn a blind eye but if Roe’s not going to put his efforts into it, Lieb doesn’t feel ‘morally obligated’ or some shit to do something about it. Roe’s an adult. He can deal with his own problems. “Let’s go back to yours, hey?”

“Sure. I think I saw Kitty around h…” They round the corner and the music becomes deafening. Set up on the far side of the main lawn is a steel-framed stage, glinting and showering a sizeable crowd in red and white light. “…Here.” Roe finishes lamely. Guitars screech and drums beat and a bass whirrs every molecule of air, setting the occupants of the courtyard on a livewire, electrifying the atmosphere- but best of all, a raspy, powerful, downright _harmful_ vocalist singing with all his might into the mic:

_“…Heyy! He-eyy… And I love the way you hurt me-e-e… It’s irresisti-baaal, no! Yeah-- waohh, no-o- yeah!! I love the way, I love the way, I love the way you hurt me, baby…”_

“Inn’t that Winters? Bro from music who’s always hanging around Kitty and Haz?” Gene nods slowly, surely entranced by the movement of inky blue bodies, whirling legs, hands flaring and curling as elbows straighten, twist at awkward angles, cut through the air in sheer, precise movements that lead the body around the stage.

“Ey-yo, Toye!!” From somewhere beyond the writhing, raving, heaving masses on the ground and the synchronic, easy performers onstage, Lieb catches a conversation of voices he knows between the amplified pitches of Winter’s astonishing rendition.

“Fuck you want, Kitty?!”

“Look!”

“Look at who?!”

“Look! Gene and Lieb are on a date! Hah!”

Spiers is upon them in milliseconds, crossing half the length of the quad at the click of a finger. Liebgott knows. He’s tested it.

“Hey, baby, how’re you?” Spiers is leaning close enough for Lieb to smell his reeking cigarette breath layered above the general sweat and broken grass that fills the court. Roe leans away and Spiers follows, going as far as wrapping protective, leech-like arm around Gene and drawing their bodies together and away from Liebgott. He snorts; his amusement at Speirs’ one-track motives outweighs his spite towards how controlling the man had let his complete questioning of _everything_ become.

Call him a hypocrite, sure, except he never let it go that far. He figured there’s a limit to what you should question; a difference between what needs to be questioned and what doesn’t.

“Oh, let the boy breathe, Ess.” Kitty- the kind of person you _know_ , just by the look of them,would and could rip your heart to shreds in thirty words or less -smiles winningly in comparison to Spiers’ abjectness. Gene keeps his mouth sealed shut, thankful for the tiny give he receives in breathing space- as per her request, of course, not his. She cards a hand through her cropped, noticeably dyed black hair, in a confident, virtually threatening manner. Her broad shoulders seem to puff up, her biceps tightening and rising in a show of muscle; if anyone can pull off a menacing hair-fix, it’s Kitty Grogan. One inch short of seven feet, her legs get her barely _half_ as far as her wit, her intellect. When she sits down, there’s not much too her- mainly because her thick legs are cramped up beneath the desk- but the second she stands up, she’s towering over the majority and drawn even with whoever’s left. Only in height, naturally, for her interminable knowledge of everything both random and specific sets her apart, and better still, she’s honestly modest about it.

How she settles for a slob such as Harry Welsh, no one has any idea.

Moments of casual banter and Gene being tense, terse, talkative, and everything he shouldn’t, escape Liebgott: he’s pulled straight back into the trance of hypnotizing dancers.

Finally, _finally_ \- because he’s Joseph Liebgott and he shouldn’t be avidly watching _dancers_ and he hates _Webster_ , who is a _dancer_ , so -he’s dragged away from the stage area and onto the familiar path to the dorms. Their rowdy group stops along the way at a specific oak tree when Spiers swears he can hear Muck and Malarkey ‘passionately making love in the tree tops from here’… but no, the pair are only arguing over the colour of the sky and whether Malarkey shaving his legs would benefit his artwork- _not_ for the benefit of wind resistance when running _or_ Muck’s fever dreams, or so he claims, unprompted -simultaneously.

“Quit making out up there and come join us ordinary ground-dwellers!” Someone… probably Toye, the unhelpful brat… yells up to the silhouetted tree against the sky, bursting with stars and intermittent wisps of clouds. Lieb’s eyes get lost there momentarily, until:

**c-cRACK**

**who o osHhhhHHHH**

A branch roughly one and a half times Liebgott’s height spears downward from the tree’s top, whizzing down with a force that can’t be mistaken for anyone else’s arm but the deranged, slightly insane engineer.

“Muck, what have we said about throwing stick at p-” Gene’s resigned-sounding outburst- seeing as he’s arguing a moot point -is cut off with a yelp of pain, a thwack of high speed collision, and the thump of a body hitting the ground.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Lark, you got ‘im out cold!!” Lieb calls out, faintly hearing Malarkey’s condescending bird screeches merging in to Muck’s litany of snickering apologies. Around him, the group lowers to the ground in a weirdly ritualistic circle around Roe, as though it were totally normal to sit and chat around their knocked out brother.

“Nice shot!” That one was Toye- again, not helpful.

“Fuckin’ aim for Grogan next, y’asshole! She can actually take a punch!”

Liebgott doesn’t know what that sends a shiver down his spine, but it does.

“That wasn’t a punch, Ess, that was a fucking tree branch! I’d like to see _your_ weak ass take one of them to the face.”

“Piss off, Kit.”

Liebgott grumbles at Kitty and Spiers’ arguing, stretches Roe out into the recovery position, and sits cross-legged with the others to await his return to consciousness. Muck scurries down, cackling to himself with Malarkey bitterly scolding him in sighs and poorly aimed brush strokes.

 

***

 

The club sings- _doooon’t- tell me what to do, and dooooon’t- tell me what to say… you don’t own me, you don’t own me –_ and out of the bunch of writhing students, Web sings the loudest. The DJ rapidly moves to _“they say we’re losers and we’re alright with that-“,_ some recent tune Webster can remember snapping at his classmates for playing excessively, everyone starts yelling “Five-SOS, five-SOS”, and he slinks away, cackling as body after sweaty body crowd past. Several people greet him, garbled, and few shout out a hasty, incoherent compliment, but mostly, everyone’s dancing. Dancing, and dancing, and _dancing_ , as if the ninety-minute long performance, all of them killing it onstage, wasn’t satisfying for the dance majors. He’s greeted at their table by Babe- “ _th_ at’ _s s_ ome hickey _th_ ere, Webber” –and by Harry- “do you think… like, what if… love, love is like, I dunno, man…” –who then leans over the tabletop to drag Web onto the bench with him.

“Good point, Haz, could need a bit of development, but you’re on your way to a true philosophical breakthrough.” That might’ve been English, could very well’ve been Cantonese or Urdu, but Harry nods in consideration for his criticism, so Web counts it as a drunken win, downing another tequila to celebrate.

“Web, everyone’ _s_ buying you drink _s_ , you don’t have to drink _th_ em all.”

“But that would be discrimatative… dicrimatirary… disc-descr… _discriminative_.”

“Idiot.” Babe hums in reply. Webster is seconds away from opening his mouth and tearing Babe an inebriated, probably counterproductive new one, when the cheers in the club double- mangled chants of “Win-ters! Win-ters! Win-ters!!” distracts all three boys.

“New phone!”

Webster jolts in his seat, whirling to the door- between hanging open flannels and scarves, a wild Winters appears, braving the ocean of people to reach his friends.

“Winters!!!” Harry, Babe, and a number of strangers crow, the man in demand proudly wielding his new device as he wades through the masses.

“Ayy!!” Webster shouts to be heard over riffs and _kings and queens of the new broken scene, yeah but we’re alright though-_ “All good?!”

“Yeah,” Winters slides over Webster to sit next to Harry, “Guy didn’t even ask, just got me the new one and a SIM card.”

“Ah, well, given _th_ e time, I’d’ve _th_ ought you’d be at _th_ e kennel.”

“Hah!” Is all Harry adds to the conversation, Winters glaring, pouting, but not arguing the opinion, before he clambers over the two and heads out to dance. Webster smirks at Winters, smirks at Babe, smirks at the overcrowded dance floor, grabs the nearest, brightest-coloured cup and gulps it. Babe cheers- sarcasm, clearly –and Winters shakes his head, shooing Webster off, squiggling closer to Babe.

And then glass after glass, Babe and his lisp hissing like the artificial tin-hat hitting a quaver beat, Winters’ blended into the polished stone walls, Harry dancing, his feet on the roof, then Lipton- _no, Lipton wasn’t here, in the first place, right?_ He looks around, vision lagged and doubled, which is hilarious, fuck, Web can’t stop laughing, and yes, _no, yes Lipton isn’t here, but I can’t see Wints or Hazza or Babe either_.

On a diminished _ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR they say we’re losers-_ “Is this son seriously on again?!” -Webster’s hightailing it outta there, chasing the bar of reception out and down the street, a contemptuous 2% battery glowering, bloody crimson in the top right corner of the screen.

 _1%-_ “Are you shitting me- Apple, you _fucking_ -” Black screen. Twizzling sphere of white, rotating death lines, aaaand- _bzzt_. Kaput. No battery. No battery, no way of calling his friends, and to make matters worse, Webster is barely able to come to terms with how smashed he actually is- that’s how drunk he is, he can’t even register it. _It’s not like it’s my fault, huh,_ he’s about ten percent certain he whines internally, _it isn’t my fault that everyone kept buying me drinks, right? It isn’t MY fault I’m such a great dancer, that everyone felt compelled to buy drinks in my honor, that…_

**Tk. Tk-… tkttk… tktk- tk- tktktktktktktkktktktktktkkkkkkkhhhshhshshhh**

Okay. He was wrong.

Now it’s raining.

Matters have now become _super_ worse. Web laughs, _that’s the dumbest way to describe bad stuff, what_ , and trundles down the street in search of shelter and a way to find Babe. _Blessed am I_ he prays, sarcastically, out loud or no, upon sighting a public phone box, a tiny yellow beacon on top and flickering, fluorescent panels inside.

 _Babe’s number, 04.. 049… 049 97… 7…_ gritting his teeth, Web punches in as many numbers he can remember and tries to match pitch with the dial tones as the phone rings.

Once.

“Hhhhm…”

“HhhhHHIIII…”

Three times.

“Hhhiiiihhhh-ahaha…”

“Hhhhiihhhhh…”

Fiv-

“H--lo?! --o’ _s th_ i _s_?”

“Babe!” He could recognize that lisp anywhere, “Baaaabe, hey, I’m- can I walk to Winters? Talk! Ha, ahahaha…” Webster has to take a minute, leaning away from the mouthpiece, laughing madly,  “…sorry, sorry, uh, can I _talk_ to Wints??”

“Ok--y. Ho--d u--- _s_ ec _th_ ough, Webber.” There are scuffles, whizzes of bass, a faint ‘ _excus_ e me…’. By the time Winter’s soothing, low voice trickles through the shitty connection line, Webster has his forehead pressed against the toughened plastic; a light dusting of frost hazes the see-through walls, misting the air. And _god, shit,_ is he tired out, drunk, and miserable. _Miserable_ , miserable, inconsolable-

“K--ny.”

“Don’t fucking call me that you shit.”

“You gon-- -o home, -ey?”

“Fuck, that sounds like a good idea…” Groaning, he stretches his legs out straight, rising onto his toes- they don’t cooperate and end him in a tangled heap on the floor of the phone booth, _lousy, good for nothing pieces of shit_ , “But I-pretty out of it, my legs stopped listening to me, Winters, Wints, why won’t they _listen_?” There’s something flicking his nose, his eye, so he shouts ‘fuck off’ maybe a little too loud, or not loud enough, or maybe he’s dreaming the whole thing and that blue pen cap on the ground will wake him is he eats it… or makes him forget everything… _fuck which one was it_? _Fuck_ , _fuck m e, where’s Winters when I need it. Him. What?_

“Yo---an make th---or--ebster, y--’re a da---r.” Winters sighs, crackling and grating through the choppy connection. “Okay, W--, listen. Th--e’ll be a pen so---ere in the----- a chain. ---eed you to pi--------or me. Web?”

He shrugs, even though Winters can’t see him- not that he knows that, in his current state –and looks up. Whatever k _eep fucking flicking him in the face, fucking damnit_ , clanks over the bridge of his nose.  He has to go cross-eyed to make out a washed-out ‘Blue .08mm’.

“Oh! Found it, found the pen!” Grabbing it, he uses the pen as leverage, giving a long tug on the beaded chain connecting it to the phone machine.

**SNAP**

“Broke the pen! But I’m on my feet, Wints, I’m up!”

“Isn’---at great, Web. Okay, so y----ing to write a num—r on y---rm.”

“What?”

“Wr-----his on your arm.”

“Who?!”

“WRI-- THIS NUMBE---N YOUR ARM.”

“Ohhhh!! Riiight. Shoot!”

“Oh-four-si-----ven---thr--ne.”

“Okay, okay. Oh… four… six?”

“Two-fo---seven…”

“Two…” He scrawls in what he prays will be legible by the time he reaches their dormitories, “Four… seven…”

“Ye---yes, okay, now, two-thre----ne.”

“All I heard was two and three,” He laughs as he slops the ink on the back of his hand, “What was those last ones?”

“----- _ssszzzt_ \---“

“Wints?!”

“-- _sSttTZ_ -Web?! Did y---et that?! T-----ne”

“Uhh….” _Three one? Nah, not one… Three nine? Two nine? Three nine, there was a ‘th’ sound on the t, awesome. Totally wasn’t satanic. Stanatic- static! Static._ “Got it! Text you when I’m home!!”

“- _stTTHHSHH_ \----areful, okay?”

“Yeh, mum! Bye!”

He hangs the phone without a second thought, glance, _whatever, fuck it’s cold out,_ and heads out to _wherever it is I need to be, what am I doing up so late at night? Where’s the party gone? Where’s Winters? I’m fairly sure Swan’s is like, down here? No, that’s an alley way. I think I just saw a dead body. Could’ve been a possum. Are there possums, here? That street goes to the recycling center. Or is that the other side of town-hold up hold up hold up, I recognize that guy! I’ll just follow him back, yes, that’s fine, I can do that… One foot, two foot, one foot, two foot, gutter, drain pipe, don’t fall and die, hah, I wonder what would happen if- aH! Where did he go?! Oh, he crossed the street. Maybe he knows I’m following him. Maybe I should be more subtle. Yeah. Okay. I’ll just… hide behind the fences of these houses. Yes. Perfect. Shit now I can’t see him. Where am I going? Is that pie I smell? What time is it… I wonder if Winters is worried about me, I’ve been out for so long, doesn he know where I a- Oh look, there’s the uni gates, sweet, everything’s fine._

 

Typing in 0462 471 339, missing half the numbers and having to redo, erase, which only causes more problems than it helps, he texts Winters a ramble of the journey, tacking on _‘home, sleeping, gnigt!’_ at the end just in case Winters was worried he’d been eaten by that rabid dog pack halfway down Georges, just past the T-intersection of Park Avenue. _What a fun afternoon that was, oh, happy days. First year. Can’t believe how o l d I am…_

His phone dings seconds later, the incoming text reading:

**_0462 471 339, just now_ **

c _ool story, mate, but I think you have the wrong number_

Lacking the energy to respond, nor the will to call Babe again, he curls up around his pillow and hopes tomorrow won’t hurt as bad.


	2. Lead Me In To Your Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And to Spiers, Gene is convenient, too: compliant. Gene’s sick of being compliant- Spiers is sick, and Liebgott was right. The whole situation is totally fucked up.
> 
> In other news: Auditions for West Side Story, and the texting begins [also Winters is still the smartest person ever [and Muck is a crazy scientist who has almost developed a method of time travel]]

 

Webster’s morning class of pop dance was a tragedy. An honest to god exemplar Aristotle tragedy, with hamartia and catharsis and everything. Fatal mistakes in the form of uncountable drinks last night, inspired pity in his students, inescapable fate of his hangover, and god damnit, someone needs to turn the fucking _sun_ off. _Ugh_ , Web shudders as the left of his group break from the right in hip sways and fancy footwork he can’t recall telling them to do for a piece as simple as To Build A Home, _hamartia sounds like a disease, a disease I don’t want but I have._ Pushing a hand over his eyes, Web turns the music down.

“What are you guys doing?”

Renee, one of his best and oldest pupils, pipes up with a note of sympathy in her low voice:

“We made up a bit of improvisation in the piano bridge, Webber… thought you’d have noticed, but…” She trails off, snickering along with the other students, “Seems like last night keeps its hours, huh?”

“Don’t get all fucking philosophical on me, Ren, or you guys’ll be doing American Idiot on repeat for the next half hour, don’t _test_ me.”

“Hah,” George, a popular first-year who’d taken up Web’s dance lessons even though he already had filled his elective requirements, “Like you could, teach. That’s as likely as Talbert and Shifty coming in here with that fucking Shepard again, tryin’a get him to dance.” He ruffles his dark blonde hair, smirking at one of his many friends in the class- Talbert, a third year music student who illegally keeps dogs in his student living building with his boyfriend Shifty Powers. And by dogs, Webster means a _large number_ of dogs; last time he counted, they had two dozen dogs. He collects them, like chicken eggs of the alleys and sewers and _fucking damnit, what am I even thinking?_ Webster groans, pulling his legs to his chest and burying his head into his knees to block out the natural light beaming a puke colour, thanks to the auburn windows.

“Wanna try me?” Talbert mumbles, his perpetual face of concentrated frowning breaks out into a toothy, primary-school-like smiles he seems to be unable to shake. Chipped teeth and everything, with raised cheeks and narrowed, glowing eyes. George stops preening himself long enough to ruffle Talbert’s short-cut hair fondly, a couple of their classmates swoon, and Webster huffs and breaths loudly and tries to stop the build of bile threatening to missile itself out of his mouth and all over the stereo.

“They seem to accumulate over the winter months.” George comments, apparently guessing what Web was thinking about, and no one says anything as Talbert runs from the studio with a mad cackle. “Dogs just love him. It’s weird. It’s probably the curly hair. “

“Dogs are weird like that, though, there are just certain kinds of people, I guess.” Renee says, then offhandedly adds: “And Web, don’t you have those audition things? West Side story? Like, now?”

The man in question blinks against the darkness of his pajama pants and struggles to stay awake, afraid that if he does fall into unconsciousness, he’ll relax too much and his insides will liquefy and melt out of every orifice.

“Noooo…” He garbles in a groan, “What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“What time does the audition start? What day is it? Who _are_ you people? Get outta my house.” He whines, his students giggling at his probably still-drunk words. “Far too early for… shenanigans, damn… hooligans like yourselves… disturbing the peace…”

Lucky for Webster- and to the disappointment of the students –the saint in the body of a man called Richard Winters walks in with a backpack and a drink bottle in each hand.

“Up, Web.” Dick hauls his friend to his feet and shoves the backpack over his injured elbow. Webster winces at the light, at the numb stab of pain running down his forearm, and at his friend’s grumpy tone, telling him he’s none too pleased with Webster’s behavior. “Leather jeans, landscape shirt, scarf-”

“Ipod?”

“Back pocket. Here.” He tightens Webster’s hand around the bottle and turns to leave. “Berocca. Get to that audition. You’ve waited way to long for this and I don’t want to have to deal with another year of your whining. Get up. Get over it.”

Talbert smashes through the door with Trigger, his fucking _massive_ German Shepard, pouncing and panting at his heels. George claps his hands, as excited as the dog, the class ending itself with the antics Trigger brings.

Webster groans.

“Clean up your shit, don’t let the dog shit in here.” Winter orders the group, and Webster cackles when there’s a few ‘yessir’s followed by an awkward silence in which Trigger pants happily, Talbert fawning over him in a babying voice,

“‘O’s a good boy?? Huh? Huh?! Das right! You are! Yesss-you are, you are, good man…”

 

***

 

“Kit, you are so perfect for Riff, this is going to be awesome. _This,_ ” he gestures to the huge auditorium, “is going to be _awesome_!!”

Lieb elbows her, hard, to show just how much he means it. Kitty acknowledges she feels his support by lashing out with her foot, making solid contact- his shin, damn near cracking under her sharp heel. “ _Ah_ , fuck!”

“I _know_.”

“Y-you’re awesome-”

“I _know,_ Lieb.”

“A-and with Bull behind it, it’s gonna be great- fuck, shit are you wearing fucking _stilettoes_ or something, think I’m _bleeding_ …”

“Wimp. _Also_ , you better be my Tony or next time, I’ll _make_ you bleed…”

The door flies open; Kitty smirks and kicks him again, earning a wounded grunt and more grumping complaints. “And with your _Webber_ man here today, competition’s gonna be stiff-”

“ _What!?_ ” Lieb does not basically launch himself out of his seat and look around, squinting against the strong sunbeams flooding in around the new arrival, he absolutely doe _not_ \- and his voice definitely doesn’t break when he whispers a loud: “Where!!?” to Kitty, either. She chuckles.

“Clearly not the only thing that’s gonna be _stiff_ -”

“Oh fuck, you are absolutely shitting me, _why_ is he here…” Lieb rambles, sinking deep into his seat. “This is so bad, this is real _bad_ shit going on right here, _right now_ , Kitty _save me…_ ”

Kitty is smug, way too smug, unhealthily smug for a human of her size. Lieb hates her.

They talked it out last night.

The whole ‘Webster’ situation going on- not that he would call it a _situation, Kitty, I don’t even fucking like him, he’s obnoxious and- and he’s just stupid…ly tall, like, you know, t-a-l-l tall, with, like, muscles- but not too much muscle so that he looks like a hulk, no, he looks all wiry and sinewy and hot- a hot pile of shit, fuckin’ stupid, beanpole idiot, and he talks really fuckin’ well- not, well, no, he’s practically just- ugh, and his voice- fuck me, his voice is incredibly-y-y- annoying, so so so annoying, and his face is just- just- makes me want to- I wanna take it in my hands and- fuckin’, and punch it, is what I wanna do, damnit, no, stop looking at me like that, you fuck._

So Liebgott might like Webster. A lot. It’s a bit of a problem, but he’s dealing with it.

The man walks in, his eyes lock on Kitty with a fond smile, and the second his grey-blue watch grazes over to the guy sitting next to her, everything about him changes. His lazy gait becomes a cocky strut. His shoulder, hunched with tiredness, click back as though a mechanism within them activated, switched to the ‘perfect posture’ setting. Tired ocean eyes widen in a flaring anger, his fingers twitch and curl- distractingly, even from such a distance –hell, even his fucking hair seems to flick up on point as soon as he recognizes Liebgott sitting next to Kitty.

And Kitty can tell- _fuck_ _knows_ , Kitty can tell there’s a connection... She’s spent most of her life surrounded by the same group of emotionally constipated dicks, what else is there to do but observe their varied array of mating rituals, be it with outsiders or with one another. And, more importantly, she knows that the red-tipped ears of Joseph Liebgott amount to more adoration than lust. Lust is a neck deep flush and jittery hands, but his _crushes_ , his fine and rare infatuations, are restless legs and glowing ears and harsher words than anyone deserves.

Her experience tells her that Webster- as mulish as he can be –will not stand the force of Joe’s wrath. Everything is built to be bigger than it is, in that boy’s head.

Which boy is she talking about, one would ask?

Both. Both of them. Over-anxious. Over-dramatic. Hopeless.

She’s had Lieb for years, and Web around for first year drama [that was the worst part of starting tertiary studies, they call it _drama_ for a _reason_ ], and as indignant as she is to admit it, she’d be somewhat lost without the two of them.

Gene is probably the closest to sane she’ll get. Joe Toye is just… special. A very special snowflake. Harry- dear, sweet Harry –is amazing, but also amazingly dense. Ron is a disaster. Muck is absolutely no help whatsoever in any situation, ever. Malarkey is… what it says on the tin. The kids in her drama class… the ones that stuck around after their original teacher’s reign of terror, are pretty chill but only reach the ‘bro’ level on the sliding scale of fraternity.

At least Joe fits right in with them, though.

 

~~~FLASHBACK TO A FEW DAYS AGO~~~

 

 “Right on time, Joe, perfect…”A soothingly booming voice that can only belong to their performance teacher, Bull Randleman, announced as the dark-haired boy slipped in _late_ for his first day of his new subject strand: “Right on time to prove yourself and audition for this year’s musical- a classic!”

“Wicked?” A stoutly built, short-haired girl- who turned out to be Kitty, Lieb really shouldn’t be so surprised -near the front asks. Half the class, Lieb included, yells _“FIYERO!!”_ and a kid further back, somewhere from the depths of the stage curtain, pipes up, screaming: “Eleka nahmen nahmen- ah tum ah tum eleka nahmen!!” and Liebgott decides then and there that _I have found my place. This is where I belong._

Bull, unaffected, states a quick: “West Side Story.” before tossing several full scripts, character lists, and background information onto a desk and turning his attention to his laptop, adding that this will also be the text they’re studying for the semester. He repeats it three minutes later, because no one heard him the first time. Later, he’ll sigh to Lieb that he does that a lot, too many times to be properly educational. Or normal. But that’s not the point.

The point is that a majority of the class is performing an overdramatic rendition of No Good Deed, the others praising Idina Menzel. Kitty throws in a bit of Popular, someone does a backflip off their chair-

 _Yep,_ Lieb confirms to himself, _I’m home._

 

~~~END FLASHBACK~~~

 

Kitty, falsely unaware of Lieb’s current strife, jumps up and flounces over to hug Webster hello, babbling about Harry after the night out, promptly drags him over to ‘introduce’ him to Liebgott, who can’t stop _glaring_ because everything _hurts, oh_ _my_ _god_ -

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here, shit-face?!”

“I could very much as you the same fuckin’ thing!”

“Awh, pet names, I’m _dying_ -”

“Fuck off, Kitty!!” They shout in unison, gaining them the partial attention of the theater.

Webster starts.

“You have no fucking place being here-”

“Fuck you, fuck off, I have every fucking right!” A few heads turn.

You don’t even-”

“Yeah, yeah- what?! Huh? I’m a fucking _performing arts_ student now, fucktard! And welcome to fuckin’ _hell_ , because that’s what I’m gonna make your fuckin’ life!!”

“Oh, this is better than I expected,” Kitty pretends to weep for joy, rubbing beneath her eyes to dry invisible tears, “you two are so fucked up.” Neither of them hear her, not with Webster stepping closer, challenging Lieb’s personal space. His heart flickers, a thunder intensifying above cold, cold rain of _Webster, Webster, this fucking prick_ , while Webster leans closer like cliffs collapsing into rockfall, stars falling from heaven, reality fucking collapsing-

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I’d like to see _you_ try!”

“I don’t have to, asshole.”

“What the _fuck is that supposed to mean?!_ ”

“Oh, shit, if _hell_ is breaking voices of short, cute boys, sign me the fuck up-”

“Fuck you! Fuck off! Shut the fuck up! Stupid fuckin’- I’ll _break_ you- in _half_!”

“Again, I’d like to see you _try_.” Dead, cold eyes. Lieb’s stomach flips as it tries to worm its way out of his belly button.

“Well why don’t you take a fuckin’ ‘nother step forward and test that fuckin’ theory!!”

“Yeah well at least I _have_ a theory of where the fuck I’m going! Unlike you!”

“You- well, at least I ain’t some shit fuckin’ dancer! Bet you can’t even sing!”

“Well, at least I’m not a directionless course drop out with a red ears and a squeaky voice whenever pretty boys get mad.”

The taller boy turns and walks, leaving Lieb with a minor stupor, almost punching himself in the nose in an attempt to forget the brushing, electrical feel. Seconds pass, Kitty gaping as Lieb is unable to formulate a response- which is a _first_ \- until he yells out “HEY!!” causing Web to turn back, smirking, smouldering, a look of _‘is that the best you can do?’_ , and Lieb thinks _fuck this, fuck this, fuck this-_

“At least I’m not always a fucking backup doll, prancing around because they’re not good enough to be anywhere but the fuckin’ _background_ , you _asshole_.” Web frowns, stalks off, and Kitty just cackles. Loud, despicable, Lieb really wants to _tackle the shit out of her_ because this is so embarrassing, “Fuck my life. Absolutely, just, fuck. _Fuck_.” He cusses more under his breath, falling and melding into the chairs of the back row. If she paid a fraction more attention to the stupid high school animes Muck and Malarkey watch, she’d be able to see thick blue lines striping Webster’s hunched shoulders and greyed out body. From what she knows of Web and after half her life spent with Lieb, they are no less than perfect for one another.

“Why is it, exactly, that you two are at odds? Because that-” She chuckles, fanning herself, trying to lighten the mood, “-that was some serious sexual tension. Damn. I need a cold bath.” Pausing, she fixes her purple and red dyed fringe, “Or you do. Or he does. Or, how about both of you take a bath together. Naked. Just _fuck_ already. God.” Lieb groans. “See? He’d like that! He’s hot, and he’s clearly into you, after that _wonderful_ demonstration… I don’t get what the problem is.”

“He’s a defensive bitch-ass punk who doesn’t know his fuckin’ manners is what he is.” Liebgott growls, hoping the smoke rising from Kitty’s face aren’t just his imagination and the rage at _everything in existence ever_ he has right now has given him laser-vision powers.

“He’s only defensive because you fucking attack him, jerkwad.”

“ _Jerkwad_. Wow. Creative. Why don’t brush up on your old man swears before you-”

“See, this? This is what I’m talking about. Be fucking _nice_ , and maybe he’ll _not_ feel as though you hate every single fiber of his being-”

“ _But_. Kitty, you see…” He presses his palms together as if praying for strength, lifting the tips of his fingers to his lips in thoughtful pose. “I… the problem there is that I _do_ hate every single fiber of his being.”

“You and I both…” She begins, only to deadpan at him as he whines happily, quickly assuming Kitty has retaken her affections towards Webster, and she smirks, continuing: “…know that’s _not_ true.” Now, Lieb hums in disproval, grumbling with all the dramatics he possesses. “You’re an idiot, he’s an idiot, and you both _know it_. You just have to stop… butting heads for a second, and…”

“If that jerk is unable to get over that, then I’m not fuckin’ interested.” He turns to her, all seriousness, “You said butt-heads. _Hah_ ”, and closes his eyes, crosses his arms, shutting her out. She sighs, sitting by him, barely perking up as Bull tries to wrangle the hall in to order.

“Look at me. Watching my best friend- who has just found the place he belongs, and is now beating himself up, denying himself from the greatest opportunity that has ever befallen him. What has this world come to. The calamity.” Her total deadpan hits home more than he’d care to admit- her uncaring, dismissive tone, making him _inadequate, unimportant, your feelings aren’t invalid, unsatisfactory, not enough._

He turns to look at her, smiling, yelling at himself to _snap out of it_. She doesn’t say anything, but she does smile back with weak reassurance. Lieb had always been a little overdramatic- figures that he’d make a great actor, but _here’s_ to shit high school planning and shit upbringings and shit precedents in general. She’s come to discover that this tumulus surface, while often as amusing as it is difficult to handle, is telltale to how anxious he is. She could probably compose a directory to Lieb’s thinkings and feeling, to how it’s reflected externally… maybe she should, for Webster’s sake.

“Alright, thank you all for turning up, it looks like an interesting turn-out, let’s get this show on the road! Remember, this is only the musical part of the audition, so please, no monologues- and no, it does _not_ have to be a track from West Side Story! I’m looking at _you_ , Grogan.” Out of the corner of his narrowed eye, Lieb sees Kitty flip Randleman off with a heatless sneer. Bull returns the gesture, as does his assistant- a boy Lieb recognizes as one of the top music students in second year. “We’ll be hearing enough of them once practices start up. Anyway! First up: Joseph Liebgott, going for the part of Tony!”

Walking down the aisle and jumping boldly, gracefully on to the stage, trying not to look at Webster [failing miserably at both], he deepens his breaths and squares his shoulders. A backing track filters through the wall-wired speakers, and Lieb tries and he _tries_ but he can’t help but glance down to piercing blue eyes.

 _“Let’s get down to business…” Shit! Fuck! Get it together- “To defeat- the huns…”_ Cursing himself for the off tremor his nerves produce- blaming it _all_ on that fucking _ass_ who’s scowling at him from the front row –Lieb skips a quick circle and heads left down the stage. “ _Did they send me daughters, when I asked- for sons…”_ He gets three quarters down the stage before jumping and turning to face the way he came, singing in the strongest voice he can muster, strong through his stomach, his chest, not his head: _“You’re the saddest bunch I’ve ever met, but you can bet- before we’re through…”_ Making his way slowly to center stage, he sends a wink to Kitty, _“Mister I’ll- make a man- out of you…”_ From there on out, so long as he keeps his eyes up and out, looking to Kitty occasionally for strength and to Bull for confidence, his audition goes off without a hitch- the crowd singing back, imitating the different character’s voices in the bridge. Lieb truly feels home; a settling feeling, a great knot unraveled somewhere in between his ribs and his heart. He stops about half a minute before the track ends because the student beside Bull pauses the music to stand and join everyone in the theater in their clapping, their whooping praise, singing along… everyone but Webster, of course, but like Lieb gives a _fuck_ about him, anyways. Backslaps and more and _more_ praise hit him as he gets down from the stage, heading to his and Kitty’s row.

“Fucking amazing!”

“Well freaking sung, mate!!”

“Beat the _shit_ outta Darren Criss, hot damn!”

“Where have you been hiding, Jo _se_ ph?” The music guy hollers, barking Lieb’s name around a blaringly obvious lisp. “It’ _s_ about time we have a lead wi _th_ a voi _ce_ like your _s!_ ”

Web’s snort is concealed by the dying down cheers for Liebgott, by Bull trying to move everything along. By rushing trucks racing along the highways made up of Lieb’s eardrums.

“Right, right, quiet down… next up: Kenyon Webster-” Lieb doesn’t miss the flinch the full name pulls from Webster, “-who will be going for the part of…” Bull shuffles his papers before reading: “ _Bernardo_.”

“ _What_.” Liebgott accidentally states out loud, loud enough for Kitty to elbow him in the gut _hard_ , and loud enough for most of the other students to whirl towards him in surprise. From across the space he can hear Webster chuckling to himself as he elegantly steps onto the platform, but his mind and blood gushing _anger_ and _what the fuck, no, what_ effectively drowns into a murmuring taunt: _’I’m too perfect, I’m out of your limit, I’m out of your league’_. Liebgott’s got a competitive streak that makes him more high-strung than a cable cord linking the back of two full-pedal accelerating Ferraris. Talent is practically a sexual kink for him, too; especially talent in the arts, which makes everything all the more confusing. It sucks. He can’t help it. He can’t help that he finds Webster really bloody damn fucking attractive. He can’t help but hate him and his _grace_ and stupidly hot dancing and ho­ _ly shit his voice-_

 _“You’re- so- hypnotizing…”_ The second he makes sense of the lyrics, Lieb gasps, stops breathing altogether, makes some kind of weird groan-whimper fusion in the back of his throat, and then decides he can’t bare to watch and throws himself to the floor in a shudder of over-boiled emotions. Sadly, he finds that being on the tacky floor between the rows doesn’t exclude him from hearing Webster’s breathy, sultry voice: _“Could you be the devil, could you be an angel…”_ Kitty is positively screeching by now, booting Liebgott repeatedly in the back and stammering between laughs: “about _you_ , it’s about you, I swear to fucking god it is, it _is, fuck_.”

_“...Feels like I am floating, leaves my body glowing- They- say… be afraid…”_

“I can’t look, I can’t look, I can’t-”

Kitty cackles.

“Oh, no they want him to- oop, he’s doing it, his lifting his shirt up-”

“-Kitty, n _o_ , stop-”

“-Look at them pants, are they _leather?_ ”

“Kitty-”

“-Oh- there’s a happy trail, Joe, hah, look-”

“- _stop_!”

Kitty laughs louder. Lieb is sure his ears are bleeding.

“-He’s- ah, he chickened out, what a tease-”

_“…You o-pened my eyes… and I’m ready to go, lead me in-to the li-ight-”_

And his nose. And his eyes- fuck it, his entire fucking body may as well evaporate, who needs physical forms when someone as _perfect_ as _Webster_ is standing on stage, singing like a fucking asshole archangel?

“You’re a fucking bitch, Kit, I-”

“Is poor Lieb a bit _smitten?_ Maybe even a bit shamelessly turned on, lustful-” She’s only playful, laying it on thick, and it does nothing to stop Lieb from punching her knee with all his might and heaving his aching body back into his chair. “Ow, what the _fuck_ , I was only joking!”

“I’m so _done_. I’m so _fucking_ _done_ with him, I _can’t_ \- Kit, _Kit_ , _please_ , kill him for me, I’ll give you all my money, I’ll give you my car, I’ll give you _Muck_ , I-”

“What has gotten in to you?!” Sitting him up straighter and whacking him upside the head, she whispers forcefully to be heard over the chorus. “He’s singing a fucking song! It’s not like he’s threatening you personally, or flirting with you, or something _stupid_ like that, of _course_ not, because you so clearly _hate_ each other’s guts!”

“I don’t know what the _hell_ you want from me, Kit, fuck-” She turns to him; mouth a flat line, speaking all seriousness.

“Don’t be such an overcomplicated asshole. Get _over_ the fact that you were _wrong_ , and that you wasted three years of your life, and _sure_ , he sounds to be a better singer than you, but…”

_“Boy- you’re an alien, your- touch so faraway… it’s- supernatural, ex-traterrestrial…”_

Webster stops suddenly, as does the track, and it only makes it _that_ much clearer to Lieb that the cheers are far louder for fucking _Kenyon_ _Webster_ than they were for him.

“You gotta admit…” Kitty continues, a vague awestruck look in her eyes as she stands, moves away from him and towards the stage, “He’s pretty perfect. Even for _you_.” She pauses, looks over her shoulder at Lieb calculatingly, then mutters a barely audible “Maybe even perfect… _for_ _you_ ” before flippantly singing: “Or not!” and joining the other students in admiring Webster.

Lieb joins them- but instead of saying the “you performance was great, I was wrong about you, want to go get coffee or should we skip that stage and go have amazing hatesex in my apartmenasdfghjkl” he’d planned on using, to make nice and see if Kitty was _right_ … all that comes out is an eloquent:

“The _fuck_ was that?”

“…Um, excuse you?” Webster gives right back, sweaty shirt and tight pants and all, “The fuck _was_ that, huh?”

 

While Lieb and Web are openly attacking one another and Bull is watching it happen and saying the chemistry is great and stealing the music guy’s popcorn in handfuls, Kitty gets on stage, announces who she’s going for, and leads ‘Jet’s Song’ incredibly, without a backing track. Music guy demands an encore.

 

***

 

The first think Kitty says when she walks into the seven-person apartment, designed for a maximum of two, is: “Muck, I swear to hell if you keep throwing ridiculous nicknames around I’ll throw you out the window.” The blinds over the windows are drawn shut, but like _that’s_ going to deter her from trying.

His response: “But it’s cooooold outside!!! Lark-lark, help meee.”

Malarkey is immersed in the virtual walls of a Roman house and his character climbing there, and diverts Muck’s attention pretty quickly, but what else is knew in their lives.

“You’re on your ow-NO, fuckin’ _stop throwin’ ya fuckin’ rocks a’me!!_ Asshole gaurds! N-no, _stoppit!! Stop!_ I _command_ you!”

“You’ve got half a- _fuck_ , take some _medicine_ , you idiot!”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life!!”

On screen, Ezio falls to the cobblestone streets, the scene washed over in red, glitching.

“Oh, fuckin’ _wow_ , incredible playin’, ya fuckin’ dumb shit!” Muck throws his arms up and snatches the controller from Malarkey with disgust, fighting his smile at Malarkey’s giggling. “I didn’t save, now we gotta go back to the last sequence. _Thanks_.”

“Nah, I saved after that Romulus tomb, we’re good.”

Muck gapes at him as though he’d just saved the planet [the real one, that is]. They lean close, shoulders smooshed and cheeks pressed as the screen re-synchronises their character into Renaissance Rome.

“I _love_ you.”

“Before you start making out,” Kitty snarls without much heat, taking joy in their hasty springing apart, “Where’s Gene at?”

“Spiers dragged ‘im in’o their room ‘bout a minute ago. Just missed ‘im.”

“Fucking _Spiers_.” She grumbles, flopping onto the couch, Lieb following suit, echoing her:

“Fucking Ron.” He grunts, pulling out his phone in unison with his friend. Muck sighs, nudging Malarkey gently to get him playing before adding his own quiet displeasure.

“Amen to that.”

Toye strolls out of his room clad in a thin towel at the waist- absently ripped off by Muck as he passes. He looks down at himself, shrugs, and settles beside Liebgott on the couch.

“The velvet feels nice on my ass. Shoulda done this years ago.”

“It’s not velvet, it’s velour” Kitty drones at the same time as Lieb mutters “you sit here naked daily and we’re tired of your shit, get out of my house” but nothing happens and the three play on their phones, sparing a portion of their attention to the video game, the boys playing it, and the closed white door to the right of the TV.

“Mucky!” Malarkey shouts, unnecessarily loud, “I still think we should-”

“Go back in time and marry Leonardo Da Vinci.” Muck finishes, grumping fondly, in a manner friends can. “An’ I already told ya, _Larkle_ , I’m workin’ on them blueprints, it just ain’t happenin’ yet.”

“Check the boxes: go, time travel plausibility.”

“Damnit, fine, you fuckin’ demented songbird. Three.”

“Three?! What-”

“One: the existence of wormholes.”

“Yeah?”

“Two: the development of warp-speed, _of_ my own design,” He tacks on proudly, before the two look around for cameras. “But yet to be properly tested in sub-zero, I’m working on a chamber.” It’s some big joke they’d made up in high school- well, it started as a joke, but then Muck accidentally discovered an agent in red vinegar, potassium, hydrochloride, and some mysteriously unlabeled bottle under the student common room’s kitchen sink that, when painted onto an absorbent surface, gives chameleonic properties. Since then, whenever Muck makes an insane find that MI6, the CIA, and every other authority would likely kill to get their hands on, he and Malarkey find a good place to hide it in their dorm and sweep the entire place for ‘bugs’. Then they laugh, order takeaway, and play videogames until five am.

“I knew you could do it!” Malarkey exclaims, “Just think about it! In a few years time! You, me, all of time and space! How does that sound?! Ah, I’m excited.”

“You’re both fucking mental and you’re going to die and I’m not going to miss you.” Kitty drones.

“You say that now, but see who gave you that red bicycle you’d always wanted for your sixth birthday.” Malarkey responds, ruthlessly double-assassinating the brute guards at their post, a few blocks away from the church Muck insists he should know the name of because it’s _where the Pope lives, you imbecile_.

“I’ve never rode a bike in my life.” She sighs, as if everyone knew it.

“You drive a motorcycle!” He cries, defending himself from the pikeman who witnessed his murder.

“That’s different!” Kitty argues, unbothered to look away from her phone and instead shouting at the endearing text from Harry.

“Leave modes of transport out of this!” Is all Malarkey yowls, clearly at a loss.

“You started it!” She yells, now smiling, and it comes out as a smitten yelp because her soon-to-be fiancé is a fucking cutie, and everyone has a soft spot, even the badass that is Kitty Grogan.

“Yeah, well, Muck’ll finish it, he’s great, get fucked. We’ll ‘ave a damn fuckin’ TARDIS, y’shit.”

And one would wonder why Muck loves Malarkey as deeply as he does.

“Three: I got myself one dang-good companion, don’ I?”

“Aaa!” Malarkey beams, giggling, and allows himself to be stabbed to death by a pikeman in favor of throwing himself all over Muck. “Skippy, you _do_ , don’tcha!!”

Toye snorts.

“Yeh, that, an’ Leo’s probably not gonna be all he promises in this game, ya nitwits.”

“Funfucker.” Grumbles Malarkey when he sees Muck’s stung expression, “Who’re you to say timetravel ain’t gonna-”

“I said nothin’ ‘bout that, I just mean-”

“Oh, _just_ ,” Kitty reaches over Lieb to whack Toye with her phone, “Knock it off, all a’you, will ya?”

They stops talking immediately- Muck and Malarkey sit back up, reappearing near the Assassins Den on the Tiber. Malarkey passes Muck the controller, who runs straight to the waypoint.

Leonardo Da Vinci is waiting for Ezio, in his red beret, with his sassy, smirking wit.

“God, he’s hot.” Muck grunts, unashamed to say he swoons a little at the exchange between the assassin and the engineer-artist. His idol. His everything… besides Malark, of course.

“’m pining. It hurts.”

“It’d be that hair, yeah?”

“Nah, more the humor.”

“Why can’t we romance him? _Fuck_ Sophia Sartor.”

“Yeh, she comes later, though.”

“Damn right she does-”

“ _Not_ like- no, Skippy! I mean, he’s still got ages ‘fore Constantinople. Who knows what’d happen.”

“And I’d like to see it happen!”

“That’s what fanfiction is for, dumb shit.”

“But, I mean, check th’boxes, he got ten, at least.”

“He’s _more_ than a ten, he’s like, twelve-”

“Bro-”

“Kay. Heart eyes, fondness, protectiveness, loyalty-”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a boner in those breeches-”

“Will you two stop!” Toye shouts, “Stop pining over a fictional character!”

Malarkey is quick to fire back.

“Quit your fear of polyamory and ask Shifty out on a date!”

“EY!”

“Yeah!” Muck adds, running away from Leonardo with a bunch of parachutes, “They already ‘ave Guarnere wound up I their fucking love decagon, I heard, so, how would someone as _kickin’_ as Joe Toye go in there, huh?”

Toye is murderous.

“Don’t call me ‘kicking’. I’ll fly-kick you in the face. And I don’t care if Bill fuckin’ _Gonorrhea_ can get with ‘em, he ain’t me. There ain’t no thing like me, ‘cept me.”

“I _knew_ you were a fuckin’ nerd.” Kitty announces, then punches Toye and upsetting Lieb _again_ when she does so. “Plus, no one’s here’s gonna care if you’re into shit like that. And neither will they, if they’re going out with you. Everyone else’s opinion don’t matter shit.”

“Thanks, Kit.” Toye says, smirking, but resolutely _not_ heading for the door... Hopefully due to him having no clothes on- and not because he’s a shy fuck, under all those artfully torn jeans and woven arm bracelets that he’s never seen without, even in the shower or the heat of summer. Although it’s debatable that Talbert, Powers, and, supposedly, Bill would take more kindly to Toye’s current appearance, the general student body may not.

Muck screams at the screen when he falls into the river, only quieting when Malarkey reminds him Ezio isn’t _dead, this ain’t Crusades, he can swim now, yeah? Look- sewerage water of Rome, he’s lovin’_ it… as if there are few more comforting words in the world than that. Muck settles against his friend’s warm side, flicking thumbs and fingers across the controller like a pro, free-running the red roofs of Rome, taking out crossbowmen. Kitty elbows Lieb and shows him Harry’s latest text and they chuckle, while Toye puts his phone on the arm of the sofa and inspects a pillow, evaluating its clothing potential over his crotch like it’s entirely normal to consider pillowcases as underwear.

“I- I said no, Ron, get off! _No_!”

Everyone freezes at Gene’s panicked yell; Malarkey pausing the game and everyone locking their phones, watching the door. There are muffled movements, a thump, a rumble of Spiers’ smoke-scratched vocals, then: “I _mean_ it! _Back off_ , Ron! No means _no_!”

Gene’s voice approaches the door and in a flurry of thick blankets and tiny wrists, it’s slammed open- Gene thundering out with his quilt wrapped around his thin frame, Spiers leering alone in Gene’s bed; draped in the transparent white linin, stark naked, a glowing cigarette dangling from between his teeth.

Gene walks right by everyone and out the door, his tears glistening against his flushed red cheeks, even in the dimness of their living room.

“Who’s gonna go get ‘im?” Muck speaks up, tone almost deadly as he glares at Spiers; who is wholly unaffected by the entire ordeal.

“Bro, I aint touchin’ that shit, I-” Malarkey starts, but Kitty cuts in, beyond pissed.

“He’s got _no_ clothes and he’s sad and in a quilt and-”

“Walkin’cross the quad with no clothes, and sad, and in a quilt, _and_ there’s _snow_ on th’fuckin’ _ground_ , go fuckin’ get ‘im before his toes fall off!” Toye shouts at them all, abandoning his pillow in favor of imagining his hands around Spiers’ neck. Not in the sexual way, either. No one moves; Muck is the one to round on Spiers.

“An’ _you_. You _ever_ fuckin’ do that shit again, to _anyone_ , and I’ll _kill_ ya, ya hear?”

“Like you could murder anyone, short stuff.” Spiers, nonchalant, detached, breathes his nicotine and glances out the window. ‘Sides, she’s not _my_ themfriend.”

“Don’t fuckin’ matter! Sexual assault is sexual assault, there ain’t no way about it!” Muck yells, his voice low yet squeaking with force. “Do I gotta check fukin’ boxes for it, huh!?”

“No, loud and clear.” Spiers’ breath is black, his eyes pits to the center of the earth. “Fucking _heroes_. Leave me alone.”

“We love you, shithead, you’re just making shit-dumb decisions with that shitbrained brain of yours.” Kitty growls, unlocking her phone and going back to Harry. Spiers makes an eloquent “ugh” at the back of his burnt throat.“So who’s gonna go fuckin’ get ‘er?”

“Dunno. Dunno where she’s gone, though.” Toye- no where near as relaxed as the other four about Spiers’ latest act of _stupid_ –gets off the couch and heads to the room reserved for Muck, Malarkey, and Liebgott. He slams Spiers’ door meaningfully, pretending he didn’t hear Ron’s dark, rotten laughter-gurgle behind it.

“But.” Malarkey unpauses Muck’s game and keeps playing as Muck babbles, “But, it’s cold, she’s alone, what if-”

“Muck, she’s a grown kid, she’ll be fine.” Kitty groans, falling onto Lieb before he can go join Toye and brood like the failed pair of emo kids they are. “It’s broad daylight out there. ‘Sides, she’s in a quilt for fucks sake, someone’ll help her- I doubt Gene’ll appreciate our help anyway, it might even upset her more.”

Ron appears from his room in naught but low-slung, pizza-patterned boxers, a navy towel over his shoulder. His voice is raspy from the toxins, his tone appropriately noxious.

“Can’t believe you fucks still try keepin’up with ‘em, how many times do I gotta tell ya: ‘ey really don’t give a fuck anymore.”

“We’re just tryin’ to be respectful you f-” Muck starts up, but Spiers cuts in:

“No, _respectful_ is listenin’ t’what ‘ey actually want: _no fuss_. But oh, no, you go around sayin’ ‘ _lipstick means she’_ and _‘chap stick means he’_ and _‘none means neither’_ , because Gene’s fuckin’… yeah, alright?”

Sometimes they all forget that, as shit a person Spiers can be, he is Roe’s boyfriend of three years, and they actually know one another on an moderately intimate level. Even if his slur and sandpaper throat makes him nearly painful to listen to; not that his poor speech pattern made it easy in the first place.

“So… she’s agender?”

“Man, _fuck_ labels. Who’m I to tell _him_ who to be, eh? Not like _she_ minds, either or, I don’t give a fuck.” He heads for the door- cigarette still in place between his yellowed fangs -humming one of the old, underappreciated scream-singing Fall Out Boy tunes.

Kitty steps in his path.

“Spiers, put that fucking thing out. We don’t want the damn fire department tearing up the dirt in the square again. No one’s gonna appreciate being dragged outside in this weather, bro.”

He grimaces, puffs smoke in her face, and cruised for the showers.

 

***

 

One second Gene is sloshing through snow, feeling her tears literally _freezing on her face_ \- the next, she’s staring down at a cursing red-head with freckles and braces and a cradled right arm as he struggles to sit up in the slippery ice, surrounded by sheets of A4 paper, some still scattered and running in the harsh wind. The boy is swearing words like ‘dang’, and ‘gosh’, and ‘far out’, and if Gene were in her right mind, her heart would be as liquefied as the sludge on the footpath. Sucks that today would be the day Gene’s heart hardens, encases itself in frost, gets put on hold- waiting to be thawed when Spiers emerges from his own personal, transient winter.

“Oh, oh my god, I am _so_ _sorry_ , fuck…” Gene bends down to start gathering up the papers disappearing against the snow, whipped away by breezes. She can hardly feel the fresh tears rolling down her cheeks- the cold has numbed any part of her body outside the quilt, yet she figures she’d be just as numb despite the cold. She falls to her knees to try and organize a pile but her falling only succeeds in enticing her to never get up again.

Spiers is a piece of _shit_ but Gene can’t figure out what to do, who to go to, and he’s just convenient. And to Spiers, Gene is _convenient_ , too: compliant. Gene’s sick of being compliant- Spiers is _sick_ , and Liebgott was right. The whole situation is totally fucked up. “S-sorry, fuck I’m so- so sorry…” She imagines melding in amid the powdery ice, staying under there, paralyzed in this pain forever, because it’s better than the emptiness she feels whenever Spiers withdraws, morphs in to a bi-weekly abyss of existentialism and self-dissatisfaction.

She just wants something complete- something light, something that actually makes her feel _worth_ something.

“It’ _s_ okay,” A mildly pained, concerned voice utters, part of the whirlwind of loose sheets and Gene’s panicked inhales, “Ju _s_ t in _st_ rument and equipment li _st_ we need from _st_ orage…” A soft, fuzzy hand closes over one of Gene’s- “Hey. Are you okay?” Gene looks up, paper forgotten and crumpled in her hands. The boy smiles- gentle, welcoming, soft; Gene doesn’t know what to do with it, “You look like you’re freaking out _s_ o, like, you’re okay, okay?” It’s a handful around the braces, Gene can make out that much, focusing on the split, pink lips and dull wires barring in his shining, pale teeth and _Spiers has disgusting teeth and breath and this kid smells like nutmeg and his teeth glow_. “Woah, okay, no, it’ _s_ chill, we can cuddle here, I ju _s_ t…” Gene isn’t aware that she’d pitched forward in sobs until her ribs rake painfully against her sore lungs, until two warm arms wrap around their shoulders, “Y’know… it’ _s_ cold- you… don’t have _sh_ oe _s_ … um…”

Shoes, of all things, prompts Gene- sets off her rational voice to carry over everything else tumbling around in her head, tells her to get up and out of the cold, to find Spiers, to make sure he’s okay, to protect him, make sure he goes for a run with something on his feet- last time, they had to go to hospital, for the deep gashes he’d received running barefoot in the nature park a mile off campus were badly infected.

“Who are you,” Gene crawls back, clutching the quilt tight and standing up, smiling even though she can’t stop _crying_ , “ _Fuck_ , I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Heffron…” The ginger speaks softly, his awkwardness evident. Somewhere, Gene recognizes it as a constant thing rather than a one-off ‘ _oh, you tripped me, fell on me, and started bawling, this is a little awks…’._ She reach a cloth-swaddled hand down to Heffron, who keeps mumbling through his lisp, “Edward, but my friend _s_ call me… Babe… um…”

“I-I’m sorry, Edward, I- where were you going?”

“Admin offi _ce_ … needed to tell ‘em… tell… you know what, it doe _s_ n’t… matter- are _you_ okay, um, do you…” Once they’re both standing, Babe pulls the blanket tighter around Gene and asks if _she’s_ alright- Gene cries even more because no one bothers to look past her body shape and call her by different pronouns. Sure, maybe it’s because she’s got a big ass blanket around herself but Babe is properly hugging her now so there’s scarce room for proper thought. It’s nothing like the way Spiers holds her- in fact, Spiers rarely holds her, even in public, even after sex, or… at any time, really.

“Do- do you want to come back to mine? I- oh, go _sh_ , that _s_ ounded…” He pauses, scrunching his eyes shut in a way Gene finds inexplicably adorable, then opens them so wide it’s kinda frightening, “I meant- do you- I have _s_ pare clothe _s_ , a heater, blanket _s_ , and- and I’ve told my roommate to put on a pot of chocolate _s_ o there’ _s_ that…”

Gene smiles up at him, teardrops half-frozen on her eyelashes.

“Sure, Babe.”

“Cool, _it’s_ ju _s_ t… thi _s_ … way.” Babe can’t help himself and goes to brush the icy flakes off of Gene’s eyelashes. He then seems to realize how intimate that move was and snatches his hand back, pretending to cough violently- only, he chokes on his own spit, which ends him up in a huge coughing fit, violently hacking to clear his throat. In doing so, he slams his forehead into Gene’s when she reaches over to hit his back for him.

“God, _s_ orry, I’m- _darn_ , are you okay? Ah, dangit.”

Gene just cackles and takes Babe’s bare hand in hers- disguised in a wad of quilt, and tells him to lead the way.

 

Once safe inside, Babe explaining that Harry is currently out with his friends, the pair share a massive pot of hot chocolate Babe _insists_ is a requirement to get through his music composition project.

Gene asks to hear it- when Babe opens his laptop, K-Pop fills the room at a painfully high degree and the two roll away from the computer in shock. Gene instantly begins giggling at Babe’s half-terrorized half-mortified face as he rushes to mute it.

“I- it’ _s_ Harry’ _s_ , he ha _s…_ he- yeah, he like _s_ that…”

“Korean pop music is cool, I wouldn’t care it you were…”

“I’m not, but… thanks… um…”

They both fiddle self-consciously until Babe gets enough confidence to unlock the laptop and close iTunes- he makes a point of showing her that it was _Harry’s_ library, not is –so he can play his composition without being drowned out by Baby V.O.X and Shinhwa.

“Wow.” Is all Gene can say, dazed by the piece-it sounded like he’d recorded a professional movie orchestra and played it.

“Wanna _s_ ee how I make _s_ tuff?”

“Sure.”

And that’s how Babe ends up spending the two hours he’d allotted to move microphones, stands, control boards, leads, timpani’s, and a whole families of musical instruments from the storage garages to the music center: lying on Harry’s pink, fluffy wool rug, Gene dozing slightly as Babe composes. He plays a playlist of his own music while he works. She’s fascinated by the way Babe is able to write out notes and hear them in his head, not needing audible confirmation of the harmonies and sounds. At one point, Vance Joy plays in the shuffle, Babe singing softly along.

_“Everything is fine, when your head's resting next to mine…”_

Gene waits a while, knowing she’s not too good at singing but good enough to belt along in the car and not sound like a dying cat. Waiting turns in to listening, which in turn becomes fond observation- she only remember that she _knows_ this song, off by heart… being surrounded by art-sy people does that, and Gene finds herself knowing the lyrics to everything from mainstream to the most obscure indie; in her honest opinion, Vance Joy belongs at his current safe middle mark. Sure, Riptide was a hit, but… she likes him better as a lesser-known artist, that way she gets to go on about him whenever someone asks ‘who the fuck is that you’re listening to?’

 _“Boy when you know you'll know… And I know…”_ Babe spares her a quick adoring glance, before they regress into the passionate chorus, _“You’re the fire and the flood, and I’ll always feel you in my blood…”_

Gene’s heart flattens, caves in an unfamiliar way, and she’s a little devastated once she places the now-foreign feeling of this kind of surrender. It’s contentedness. Gene’s _content_ , really, with lying naked in naught but a quilt on the floor of a stranger’s apartment, listening to Vance Joy, Olly Murs, Fifth Harmony- _oh, shit I really should put something on…_ she checks the time at the top of Babe’s laptop-

“Fuck, how long have I been here?!” Babe startles at Gene’s sudden outburst.

“Few hour _s_ , why?” Gene groans and curls up in the quilt, retreating almost entirely in to the feather-filled patchwork. She does _not_ want to face the wrath of the ‘squad’ back home; because she fled the scene in the worst possible attire- not to mention the situation she had put their friends in, put _Spiers_ in.

“My friends are going to be _freaking out_ but I’m so _comfortable_ here.” She whines in one long, winded breath, making Babe chuckle.

“Go on, get changed. M-maybe you’d want to… come over tomorrow? Or something? Like? That?” Babe’s stammer is _cute_ , Gene fists her knuckles to her chest, grinning broadly.

“I’d like that. Maybe I could help you move the music things, or whatever.”

“Maybe.” Babe replies with a grin to match Gene’s, before directing her to his room and pointing out clothes. Respecting Gene’s privacy, he closes the door and

goes back to his laptop, saving his composition- beaming at the one chord he’d let Gene put in –and pulling his shoes back on, fully intending on walking Gene back to wherever headed. _Come on, Babe, you can do this, don’t mess it up like you always do, you awkward dolt, I believe in you! She’s amazing, just, gosh, act normal._

“Hey, Babe, do you have a jumper I can borrow?”

“Yeh, try _th_ e rack-coat-thing in the corner, um, yeah.” _Dangit._ Babe hits his forehead with the heel of his hand and gets up, assuming Gene’s finished changing- logically, as she’s looking for outerwear.

Oh. He’d never been so wrong in his life.

“Thanks!” Comes the light call, followed by a snap of elastic; Babe opens the door to his room, creaks overtaking the struggling rustle- an indication that there are clothes moving around -but… There, in the middle of his room, frozen like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming bus, stands a thin frame and a lightly fuzzed stomach and a flat chest and a bulge cupped in tight, hot pink boxers, and _oh crap. She’s hot, fuck, wait, I should actually ask what she… should I?_

Gene coughs, “My eyes are up here. Hm? What does a girl have to do to get some privacy, gosh…” She jokes, hoping to diffuse the tension, to salvage the friendship they’d just made, _please don’t be scared, or disgusted, please tell me I haven’t scared you off…_

Babe flushes, garbles an apology and falls backwards as he closes the door.

Splayed on the warm carpet, ass inches away from his laptop- _that_ would have been _disastrous_ –Babe plots a million apologies and tries to tune in to a _single_ _thought_ for _one_ _second_ , all the while muttering “smooth, _Edward_ , real fucking smooth” to the kettle; who’s probably sick of his vendetta-glare. She left a lipstick stains on the brim, and he can’t stop _staring_.

Gene walks out, comfortable in Edward’s too-big marshmallow jacket and jeans as she was in a duvet, and still- Edward can’t stop staring, it’s impossible, this is his _life_ now-

“You look _nice_ \- i _c_ e, _fuck,_ it _’s_ \- I mean, it’ _s_ _s_ till i _c_ y out _s_ ide, are you _s_ ure you don’t want, like, _sh_ oe _s_ …? Or…?”

Eugene kneels down next to the fallen man, kisses him on the cheek with rubbed-clean lips. More _staring_.

“I think I’ll be just fine, Babe. Thanks for the clothes.”

And leaves, taking every ounce of Edward’s breath with her.

 

***

 

Webster gets back from some of the most intense de-stress dancing, to clear his head. His thighs ache and his feet are cramping and his shoulders sting when he uses his arms to help his legs make the trek up to his dorm room- his muscles scream, and Webster doesn’t know whether the _likes_ fantasizing that they scream ‘Liebgott’ or not, so he plants one big, fat wall between him and Liebgott in his mind. He’s done with eye-catching, intense, stimulating boys for the day: _done._

Winters and Harry are chilling, Lipton studying in the corner as usual. Whenever Talbert decides he needs a ‘dog day’, Lipton makes himself scarce of the dorm room. Plus, the fucking _nuthouse_ that is the ‘Palbert’ apartment is constantly on the verge of meltdown, so Lipton can get anywhere he wants so long as he states where he’s from. Anywhere in music, the Law demountable buildings; the engineers were particularly fond of him, because he let them use him as a wedge for some of their ramps, monorail dioramas, and bounce-boards. He’d even been in Muck’s top-secret ‘base’ under the Arts Center [an abandoned basement that used to be the darkroom for film photography]. There’s even a story of Lipton getting in to the nuclear physics area of the school’s massive science department. He fell asleep next to a reactor and a patrolling teacher thought he was inside the glass case, and pulled the one alarm that had never gone off since its installation: the ‘code green’, or Major Chemical Panic. The entire school was booted off the grounds temporarily as the full-on hazardous material response team arrived and charged in to the school. The teacher donned a hazmat suit to retrieve what she thought was an unconscious, possibly _dead_ student… she carried him to the door and passed him off to a small force of the response team; waking up to several people in masks in the back of a dim van is Lipton’s favorite part of the story to tell, especially when one of them- an intern, he later found out –broke down and stated screaming about ‘patient zero’, nearly throwing himself out the back of the moving vehicle.

Webster feels sorry for him. Sharing his living quarters with Talbert and Shifty has taught Lip to sleep through everything: allergies, loud sex, and, more recently, the Japanese punk-rock inclinations of one Bill Guarnere.

“Whaddapened to _Lieb_? Kitty said-”

“ _Harry_ , no one gives a _shit_ about Joseph Liebgott, least of all me, so kinda shut your fucking mouth.” He hauls his tired body up into his makeshift egg chair as he cusses Welsh out, not in the mood to talk or think about Liebgott. Lipton grunts ‘language’ as a disappointed dad would to his children. Webster runs a hand through his bleach-blonde hair in apology.

“Forget him, eh?” Harry snarks, eagerly texting Kitty- probably what Webster had just said, word for word, with accentuations and capitals. Web sighs. Fucking gossips, the two can’t keep anything from one another.

“Yeah, fuck him, Welsh. I can easily play up the pissed antagonist so long as I’m facing him, so it’d be better this way. It’s not like I’m attracted to him, or anything.”

“Denial!” Harry cheers, Winters slapping his toes, solely due to it being the only part of Welsh he can reach. “Denial, denial, de-” Winters gives up and takes one of Harry’s toes in his fingers, bending it the minutest bit backwards- Harry shrieks, shuts up, and pulls his feet to his ass as though Winters were holding a white-hot brand pole to them. They glare at one another for a few seconds before Winters gives, again, and returns to his homework.

“You know, you don’t have to like him to be in love with him.” Lipton mutters from his sheet music analysis. Webster feels him shrug. _Fucking Lipton, spreading his asexual wisdom, let me bathe in self-pity and torture myself in peace_.

“Fuck off, Lip, I know what I’m doing.”

“No you don’t.” Winters sings, whimsical and so serious it sounded as though he were jeering.

Harry backs Winters up, somewhat more comprehensibly.

“No, you _don’t_ , Kitty _just_ texted me- said ‘he thinks you’re too amazing but won’t put in the effort so instead he’ll practically hate your guts until this is over’. Actually, probably until you leave school. Maybe till you’re dead- who knows-”

“Shut _up_ , Harry. If he thinks so lowly of me, then fucking let him. _Asshole_.”

“Far out, it’s right in front of you and yet you do nothing. _Amazing_.” Winters… Winters looks and sounds disappointed. As soon as Web goes to say something, he livens up again, as though a switch flipped. “Well, what about that guy you’ve been texting?”

“Texting an apology for waking him up at fucking sparrow’s fart and then exchanging a few tips on how to cook lasagna is _not_ the basis for a romantic relationship, Wints.”

“And what, getting your hackles raised around one another is?” It’s all Webster can do to not sigh, and all Lipton can do to do so, so hard that he splats his forehead into the oak study desk. Winters ignores both the constipated look on Web’s face and the strangled wince of pain from the corner. “Look, Lieb, maybe it’ll be a good distraction from everything. Something external.”

“But I don’t want to… like… string a total stranger along for recreational purposes.”

“Then _don’t_. Send him a picture of you on accident, or organize to meet somewhere, or call him, or something.” Sure, they’re all treating him like a child, but Webster is acting like one- he knows he is, too, he just can’t help it. He can’t help that he’s reduced to nothing, an insecure, mindless mess. He blames Liebgott, making it all the more child-like. “You can make it more, Web, you just have to try.”

 

***

 

**1920: Hey, what are you up to?**

_2011: soz i been hanging out w my dipshit roomates, they stole my phone_

**2012: All good =] Why did they steal your phone, though?**

_2012: well…_

_2013: it’s a long story._

**2013: I have time, if you do? I mean, unless it’s boring**

_2016: EY! i wouldn’t call using my phone and its precious insides as a test source in a zero-grav chamber to be the first ever victim of my friend’s attempts to cause timetravel: he needs something that emits stronger electrical currents than humans so the only option was obviousl a cell, and i happened to be within grabby-hand range so honestly it isn’t my fault, anyway then it got sent back to, like ww2 and we figured that’s where it’d cause the least impact on people bc no one knew what tf was happening to technology in that period of time, but, yea, then it came back, and my friend cried because it worked and now he needs a living test subject and that’s when i got the fucking hell out of there_

_2016:         might i also inform you that your number is also in this phone so if it didn’t work, then you wouldn’t be talking to me right now, which is a fuckign privelage in and of itself_

**2017: I see. But, then, I could also be talking to James Dean, so, debatable**

_2017: tru_

_2017: wait, fuck, i shoudln’tve told you that, fuck_

**2017: It’s ok, I get it**

**2018: I don’t think you’re weird for coming up with such a weird story to cover the fact that you didn’t want to talk to be**

_2018: FUKC U I WANT TO TLAK TO U_

_2018: AND FUCK U IT’S A TRU STORY I CAN PROEV_

**2018: Ok, now I’m worried**

**2019: And flattered.**

_2019: i take it back- all made up, no time travel here, and well, don’t be, but also do ? idk man i wasn’t trying to flatter you, you seem like a cool guy_

**2020: A ‘cool guy’, really? Wow.**

_2020: heY. you can keep up with me in an argument, so_

**2020: Well, you’re not wrong.**

**2020: Good to know I’m not the only one enjoying the company, though?**

_2020: i mean, you’re kinda cool, i guess, and also kinda a loser_

**2020: Kinda hot? I’m aright with that =D**

_2020: shit yea i like you already =DDD_

_2021: …so what’re your thoughts on SGFG ?_

**2021: DONBT GETRMESTARTEDJETBLACKHEARTOMFGANDLJKN**

_2021: =DDDDDDDDDDDD_

\- six hours later -

_0243: you sound cute, too, if it’s any consolation_

**0243: I’m not cute I’m manly as fuck fuck off**

_0243: whatever u say, haha! goodnight!_

**0244: Night =]**

_0244: =]]]]]_

 

When Web finally locks his phone for the night, Winters throws a pillow at him and murmurs “Good trying, buddy.”

“Fucking go to sleep, you insomniac.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH K so:  
> Heart Attack [1D]  
> Irresistible [FoB]  
> You Don’t Own Me  
> She’s Kinda Hot [5sos]  
> To Build a Home [Cinema]  
> I’ll Make A Man Out Of You [Disney]  
> ET [Katy P]  
> Fire and the Flood [V Joy]
> 
> S O R R Y if this has like a million fuckign mistakes or sentences that don't end, because my life is everywhere right now and I'm dealing with shit similar to Gene so let's leave it at that. Hope you're enjoying this as much as I enjoy writing it!! [when I get the fucking chance, finishing high school is HARD]


	3. Sounds Good, Feels Good, Pls Fuck Off, but also Fuck Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texts continue, people DANCE, and Spiers is slowly quietly falling to pieces but that's ok because no one will notice, right? He doesn't extinguish his cigarettes for anyone, so who'd respect him? Who'd give a crap? Who'd... what was I saying again? Oh, yeah, rehearsals start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been listening to SGFG too much and also am not eating enough and I need to chill but hey here's a chapter  
> ALSO  
> There's a big time-skip of a MONTH between the first rehearsal and the very next 'scene' [lieb and web texting again], so ye have been warned: time passes!!! In weird ways!! in this fic!!  
> ALSO ALSO  
> I've got The Martian movie [the mars one it's amaZINGJFNK] on my mind and want to write something for it, probs a 5SOS fic so if you're in-to that shit, stick around bc it's basically gonna be like this [long-winded crack slightly based off real[ish] people] but with Mashton and Cake and everything good in the world  
> so YEAH <3 hope you like this one, next one coming hopefully before christmas !

CHAPTER 3

 

***

 

_1501: oi mystery boi, got a second ?_

**1501: Hm?**

_1501: do u know how to deal with annoying people ?_

**1502: Punch them in the face?**

_1502: idk, i think he’s stronger than me, he could probably drop me_

_1502: put me in a tree even_

_1503: ?_

**1504: Um.**

**1504: How small ARE you?**

_1504: ? like, small-ish ? i’m kinda tall, yknow, lanky_

**1504: Ah, right**

_1504: bro_

**1505: What? I thought you were, like, 5 or something**

**1505: I mean I don’t even know you?**

_1505: we literally found out we go to the same fuckin university how old do u think i am ?!_

**1506: Hah, right, forgot about that soz**

_1506: heh idiot =D_

_1506: whyyyyy won’t u tell me what degree u do ?_

_1507: u know i aint in a science cmon gimmie something_

**1507: I’m not in ‘a science’ either**

_1507: oh fuck u i kinda figured…_

_1507:… do you do something to do with arts ?_

**1508: Well**

**1509: WTF else is there to do in uni besides science and art**

_1509: law ?_

**1509: Well it aint that either**

_1509: HAHAHA IT’S AN ART_

**1509: Or, like, humanity studies stuff, commerce, business, sports…**

_1509: fuck u_

_1510: i hate u_

**1510: =D**

_1511: stand under the clock tower at 4_

**1511: =P**

_1511: don’t give me that face_

**1511: You look like a frog**

_1512: *hi-five*_

**1512: *hi-five***

_1512: k you get out of it this time, clever ref_

_1512: fuck u i'll find u one day !_

**1513: LOL**

**1513: Hold up I just gotta go check something, I’ll text you back soon!**

_1513: k good luck with that_

_1515: cryptic ass_

_1515: who even fuckin says lol anyway_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: hey, did u audition for WSS?_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: wait fuck_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: nvm_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: fuck_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: i’m just gonna delete these incase ur there or end up stalking me or something not that i’d mind ?_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: k nvmnvmnvmnvm i'll go look ar the cast list now bye_

_DELETED TEXT: 1516: y am i still tEXTING U THIS FUCK_

 

***

 

“Fuck yes!!” Kitty screeches, squeezing Liebgott tighter to her and jostling him so much that he can’t make out the list of names and characters hanging in the hall outside Bull’s office.

“What?! What does it say?!” Lieb would never admit that he’s possibly probably _way_ too scared to read further up than _Patrick O’Keefe - Officer Krupke_.

“We got it! You’re Tony! I’m- I’m _Riff_!!” She screams a little, high pitched, ear-shattering. It’s the most excitedly mobile he’s ever seen her. His present state of mobility, if it weren’t limited to the bone-crushing vice she’s clamped around his middle section, would be double Kitty’s euphoric spinning and jumping. “This is going to be fucking _rad_! Ah! I have to text Harry!!” Releasing him suddenly, she pulls her phone out and begins to type- Lieb, freed from her burly grasp, sprints down the hall and back, shouting. Just _shouting_ , shouting in pure exhilaration. “ _Lieb!_ Lieb! Oh my god, why am I so crazy?!”

“We’re fucking performing together! West side story, _biatch!!_ And look!!” He reads down the portion of the list he could actually bring himself to look at, dragging Kitty over to read: “Roe and Welshie are backstage managers! And Muck- _fuck yes_ , Skip and Malark are head of the set designs! And hey! Toye’s put his name down for a support character!”

“Dude this is going to be awesome!!” She flails away from him to text Harry again, Lieb guesses it’s to update him on his position but he really doesn’t care. As his eyes trail up the board, taking in names like _Carwood_ _Lipton - Action,_ he can’t help but shiver. This is actually happening- a student production that he’s part of, no, _leading_.

“Oi, Kit, that Clifford kid is Action.”

“ _Yes_! I love that guy! One of Hazza’s mates.” She gabbers, nose almost touching her phone screen, “He looks so badass but he’s such a _marshmallow!_ You’re gonna _love_ him.”

He chuckles, breath hitching as he reaches the top four lines on the page.

_Joseph Liebgott – Tony_

_Bailey Compton – Maria_

_Kenyon Webster - Bernardo_

_~~Catherine~~ Kitty Grogan - Riff_

“Wait, fuck,” Kitty smirks, as though she knew this was coming. Lieb is too suddenly angry, in such a rush that happiness and anger hiss and scratch one another, tearing up his insides. He can’t hear the thumping footsteps barreling down the hallway, not over the ruckus, hos shouting of “That asshole actually _got the part?!_ ”

Kitty looks up, meet’s Lieb’s wide eyes, looks behind him, and starts _pissing_ herself laughing.

“I did?!”

Liebgott whips around, wincing at the twinge in his neck- but he forgets about the potential muscle strain faster than a feather in a hurricane, whatever the fuck is an appropriate metaphor. Kenyon _fucking_ Webster is panting, grinning, all grimy and sweaty under a loose grey singlet. His tight yellow pants hug _everywhere_ perfectly. Lieb falls back against the pin board- if you were to ask him, it was due to how forcefully he shouted, _not_ because his knees went jellified and _pathetic_. “ _Shit_ yeah!”

“No. _No!_ _Fuck_ this, why do you gotta be ruining it?!”

“ _Excuse_ me!?” Webster never stops grinning; only elevating his gladness as Liebgott’s sunny demeanor breaks into a storm, “I’ve fucking _far_ more experience, so if anyone’s going to ruin this, it’ll be _you_!”

“Likely fucking story! I bet I could out-act you any day!”

“You know what?! I don’t have _time_ for your shit today!” Webster jogs back the way he came, laughing, “We’ll have plenty of time to argue on _set_ , mister _Tony_!!”

“Literally _fuck you_!!”

“Fuck I need to stop hanging around you two, or I _might_ break my diaphragm from laughing too much.” Kitty wheezes, pulling Lieb away from the offices in the same direction as Webster.

“ _Gross_ , Kit!”

“Not that dia- how do even _know_ about that kinda shit?!” She giggles hopelessly, collapsing into the fire door to open it outwards. The lovely, clear, sunny day is ruined, now.

“Fuck, I feel like _shit_. Muck wanted to have a water fight, and I just want to sleep.”

“We can sit inside and run lines, he’s got Malarkey, he’s fine.”

“I guess.”

 

***

 

**1555: I was saying it i r o n i c a l l y**

**1555: Ya dumb =D**

_1556: yeah that’s how it starts_

**1556: I sense there’s a story behind this…**

_1556: don’t_

**1557: fUCK WITH MY LOVE**

_1557: THAT HEART IS SO COLD ALL OVER MY HOME_

**1557: I DON’T WANNA KNOW THAT BABE**

_1557: AH LAHLAHHAMAAHALLAAA_

 

***

 

 _Rehearsals start…_ Babe thinks, looking down on the performance hall as kings do over their kingdom. The group on stage is wild, _loud_ \- even from the safety of the booth –as Bull struggles to get everyone in a circle for their first read-through. A paintbrush, courtesy of Skip Muck, sails through the open air of the theater and smacks against the glass. Babe squeaks in shock, falling back on the intercom button, before cursing the name of Malarkey and his entire bloodline to hell.

 _“CHHK- Babe? You alright in there?”_ His headset statics itself to life and exudes the voice of Roe. It is then that he realizes he’d sat on the call button for the stage headsets- one of which Gene must have been testing. _“Who do I need to kill? Malarkey? Because that can be arranged. Muck won’t be happy, but you can save me, right?”_

He cackles, standing up and pressing the button down to utter “I’m fine, come here and chill with me. View’s great. Got milkshakes…” before flopping onto one of the two pillow-y leather seats with a pained grunt. Gene bursts in seconds later, shouting: “Damn right, they’re better than yours, my milkshakes brings all the boys to the yard!” Babe’s cheeks hurt from how he’s smiling; his bracer brackets pinch and scratch the insides of his lips, layering more gouges on the scarring.

_Rehearsals start... and I am going to die._

He’s not alone in his addictively pessimistic thoughts, though.

Bull Randleman is ready to tear his non-existent hair out. He thank whatever lords above and below for Kitty Grogan, not that he’d ever disclose this information to the wider public.

“Siddown and shut the _fuck_ up, everyone!” She wails, unprompted. Bull is relieved when people start taking action. Liebgott and Webster- who would’ve guessed it, they’re so alike –cease their crossfire, O’Keefe gives up on chasing Lipton all over the shop with knitting needle ‘claws’ between his fingers, Luz gets the message to stop singing shanties with Perconte, Blithe puts the frayed bow of his cello down, motioning for the few musicians who’d turned up to stop following him in a patchwork sextet rendition of Dirty Talk, and Winters and Harry _snap out of it_ : staring like owls at the madness.

“Right.” Bull claps his hands, the faction of vivacious students established in an oblong shape on the stage at long last. “Welcome.” He turns to the band, “You guys don’t have to be here, you just gotta report to music head in a few weeks for sheet music before orchestral rehearsals start.”

“Who’s head-er-in’ this?” Blithe drawls, packing away his instrument, in no hurry to get away from the building tornado of _crazy_ on stage. He’s always been the kind of guy to throw himself blindly into these kind of things.

“Heffron- _Heffron_!” Bull, remembering he’d left the second year up in the booth for no purpose, shouts towards the glint of glass set in the back wall of the room. A sizzled voice sounds from the speakers a moment later.

_“Whazzaaap?”_

“Do you wanna come down here and introduce yourself?”

 _“I- nah, I’m- oh damn Gene don’t touch that butto- EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!”_ A tinny, electric whine fills the stage. People jump, cover their ears, cuss and scream at the booth to shut it off, _“AhEEEEfucksorryEEEEEBabeIEEEdoEEEn’tknowwhEEEEEatIdEEEEidEEEEEEE- CHHt… Gene it’s fine, just. Sit… crapsticks, sorry guys. Uh. Hi. I’m Babe. Music director, conductor, whatever. Yes. Cool. Excuse me; I have a SEVEN YEAR OLD IN HERE [oi, rude shit!] kidding, Gene’s here too. Welshie- he’s in AV but does an English thing – is Gene’s other half of the stage managing team. Winters, that dumb frickin’ ginger ghost next to ‘im, is my sound design advisor. Cool guy. Don’t expect ‘im to say much. Uuuuuuhhmmm…. And, yeah, that’s about it. So- have f- swear to god, Gene, stop PRESSING things-SHHHK.”_

Bull turns back to the performers- still recovering their hearing and what remains of their patience.

“Shy guy.”

No one laughs. Liebgott coughs awkwardly. Webster glares at Liebgott like he’s offended by the clearing of his throat. Bull forces himself to start talking before they begin their warfare of words again. “ _Okay_ , well, you’ve been introduced to the backstage crew, but I guess I _should_ …” He trails off, glancing uneasily to the backing of the stage. There, Toye and Malarkey are drawing up cityscapes and drain scenes on the gigantic plaster boards, currently set up as a maze on the back half of the stage. Muck is rolling here and there; pulling apart the backstage area and rebuilding _things_ Bull couldn’t name the use of. “…I should introduce you to the creative team behind this… Well. Malarkey is the _only_ arts student interested in the project of crafting our backdrops. No surprise there. Toye… I don’t even know what the _hell_ he’s doing over there, he’s a backup character in the _actual performance_ , but he’s helping Malarkey, so he can stay. Now… Muck Skip is behind stage design, set design, and also dictates what props you’ll have- if you have any ideas or requirements, go to _him_ for that. You’re _definitely_ going to end up with more than you need, but you should _probably_ tell him the necessities, in the event of him getting too carried away.”

Malarkey interrupts.

“Toye is a support but sometimes helps with painting the sets and by help he means paint everyone else to match the sets. Malarkey is _painstakingly_ planning and crafting, leave him alone. This will be amazing, we’ll make sure of it, but if you _do_ need anything, please come ask either of us. We won’t bite…” Muck rips a leg off an old piano stool with his teeth while duct taping a metal safe to an ironing board, simultaneously smashing open a papier-mâché rock and kicking two velcro gymnastics blocks together. Malarkey smiles at him fondly, “…at least, _I_ won’t.” and continues the light charcoal lines for a New York apartment.

Bull rolls his eyes.

“Glad you’re all so informed, now. Okay! Let’s get down to damn business! Read through, everyone group up in your character’s group and we’ll start.”

“Bull! Y _o_!” Muck shouts from down the stage, tangled in fabric strips and wires in the midst of some sort of scrap nest. “Can we put music on?! Y’know, for productivity purposes, of course!”

“Productivity, of course.”

“Please!!!”

“Yes! Fine! So long as it’s not that punk shit-”

My Chemical Romance starts blasting on cue from every speaker in the building. Lipton cheers. Bull turns to the sound booth and sees Babe: smiling toothily with a thumbs up at Muck, who returns the gesture, then slaps Malarkey across the face with a paint-coated powder puff.

Bull sighs.

“Productivity purposes, my ass.” He mutters, earning giggles from his cast. “Okay! Read-out. We’ll skip the intro and stuff, get straight to the lines. O’Keefe, start.”

“ _Knock it off!_ Settle _down-_ ”

_“Simmer down, they say we’re too young now to amount to anything-”_

“Lieb, for fucks sake, you’re not even in the first scene! Shaddap! Schrank: Hall- Oi! Cowboy! Pay attention! Your line. _Please_.”

“All right: kill each other… but not on my beat…”

 

Lieb is too busy staring at Web that he misses his first line- Kitty has to yell “Sperm to worm” at him a few times before he comes back from his fantasy world…

Of pummeling that sniveled little dancer, of course, what else? Kissing? Beautiful, steamy, angry wall sex? _No_. Why would you think that? Because he has his script over his lap? Psh, it’s fucking freezing, he’s simply trying to conserve as much body heat as he can. What do you mean the thermostat says it’s 31 degrees Celsius? Fucking shut up.

 

***

 

_1950: and after thirty days i'm still punk rock trash_

_1956: i can’s stop listening to foo fighters_

_1558: yo_

_1959: duuuuuuuuuuuuude_

_1959: paaaaaayyyy attention to me_

_2000: it’s been ageessssssss_

_2001: i'm stuck at this thing and there’s a guy and GOD i hate his guts but i also want to settle t f down and colonize a small property with him he l p_

_2001: it has literally been a month, y u have no time for me anymore ???_

**2031: aaa sorrysorrysorry I had a practice thing for something**

_2031: all month ?? me too tho so uhhh_

_2031: vague but acceptable ? ugh_

_2031: but no, i was bored and everyone hates me and you weren’t there to defend my honor_

**2032: Who hates you?!**

**2032: Also who has impugned your honor I will fiG H T**

_2033: ahahaha you’re cute!_

_2033: dw just some asshole who thinks he rules the world_

**2034: Ok <3 you’re awesome though so forget him**

_2034: hahahahahahahahah i wish i could man he’s pretty af like_

_2034: i hate him bc he’s beautiful and like_

_2034: outta my limit n all that shit_

**2035: Holy shit!**

**2035: I have the EXACT same problem, let’s suffer together**

_2035: yaaay!! we can cry togeths about pretty boys who we’d very much like to hatefuck_

_2035: and hug_

**2035: And cuddle**

_2036: and take out on dates_

**2036: Be all cutesy and shit**

_2036: but still be like appearing to hate each other’s guts because talent and beauty and just fml_

**2037: Insult each other but mean the opposite anDFUCK what**

**2037: YES OH MY GOD one of those couples that’s so fucking secure they can like scream and the next second they’re apologizing and the second after that they’re having sex but it’s not in a dysfunctional way ?**

_2038: fuck that was an essay bro but BASICALLY YES_

_2038: hey u kno that coffee shop a few blocks from the church exit?_

**2038: Yeah?**

_2039: do you maybe possibly wanna meet there? for like a coffee or something_

**2039: Love me a donut, man, buy me a box and you’re in**

_2040: WOOT!_

_2040: i'm super excited now aaaaa_

**2040: GET ME CARAMEL GLAZED AND YOU SHALL BE FOREVER LOVED**

_2040: CARAMEL IT IS!!!!!_

**2040: AAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY**

 

***

 

Spiers’ favorite pastime is smoking. Smoking and thinking. Doing them at the same time is the best of all sweet escapes, but sadly, his friends give a crap about his health and try to stop him from netting in all that precious, numbing nicotine; nothing like the Novocain, the silencing remedies, prescriptions, heart problems, sweet blackness and quiet… but he’ll take what he can get. That was a few years ago though- feels like lifetimes, probably a side affect of the cocaine.

“ _A dog came in the kitchen, and stole a crust of bread… then cook up with a ladle, and beat him till he was dead.”_ Spiers sings softly to himself, serenading the umber of his calloused fingers; blistered by distressing the waistband of his shorts. A nervous habit, just another tick of his, _“Then all the dogs came running, and dug the dog a tomb, and wrote upon the tombstone for the eyes of dogs to come: a dog came in the kitchen, and stole a crust of bread…”_

Waiting for Godot is the worst book he’s ever read in his life- he knows Toye gave it to him as a joke, but he feels some kind of fucked up connection with Lucky... Lucky _and_ Estragon, but mostly relates to the slave-boy whose master calls him ‘pig’. It’s accurate enough. Sometimes he wishes he wouldn’t get things thrown at him if he opened his mouth and spieled everything bottled up there. Sometimes, it made it impossible to think. All the time, it is impossible not to think; to overthink. ‘Two hags waiting in a ditch on the side of the road’ should be the title to his autobiography he thinks often of writing, but the only problem is his illiteracy. Being unable to spell for shit, his mum calls it a misdiagnosed learning disability, but she never bothered with him- the failure son, the bastard –enough to give him he help he needed. Needs. Who’d want to dictate his ranting, anyway- who _could_ is closer to the truth. He can rant about something- someone –like Gene because he’d spent a majority of his brain power focused on them for a portion of his life. They are, in the un-creepiest way feasible, embedded in his mind: solid enough to surround the idea with a name and the name with coherency and coherency with words, just as he knows the song off by heart, read the page a thousand times, hummed himself hoarse and then tried to sing it, happy, what he does while he’s happy- his happy is to the lowest stretch of the definition, because _happy_ people don’t imagine ropes on tree braches and poisoned coffee-

“See what I mean?” Spiers whispers to himself, breath fogging up the window, then snapping his jaw shut and resting forward again, taking a long, easing drag on the cigarette.

The pitch of Muck and Malark chilling, bagging out Kitty in the background, quarrelling over a trivial, fictitious game not unlike Spiers’ life: it’s homely but outlandish, frightening.

He is sitting at the window of his bedroom, the window as open as it can go. The ten odd centimeters are barely enough for him to tap ashes into the open-air. Steely-grey filaments of burnt leaves swing far into the distance by a northeasterly wind… not that Spiers’ knows which way is northeast. He just likes speaking poetically for absolutely no reason, with no factual or logical base, therefor making no sense whatsoever. It’s the best he can do, short of exploding in a flurry of misconducted, wrongly conjectured word; spew enjambment until someone noticed, until someone listened, cared, tried to figure out what the fuck _he meant_ because he can’t sit down and write it out himself, can’t silence the voices long enough to get a handle of the billions upon billions of things yelled and screamed in the corrective boundaries labeled ‘my mind’ that he images would look about as good inked on a page as his attempts at handwriting, his backward ‘h’s and words out of order and every C+ for the ‘ideas were great but you need to write more clearly’, ‘great concept, needs better wording’, ‘amazing analysis, something needs to be done about the handwriting’-

“Oh, fuck,” Muck, _squealing_ , “You _ass_ , I thought I had that!!!” Spiers’ demonic, vivacious anxieties yank the reigns, while his concentration falters, to scream at them:

“ _Shut up!!!_ ”

The eerie silence falling, rolling from the main room into Spiers’ is full of screams- to stop, be quiet, shut up, _don’t speak_ \- “ _Sorry_! Um. You- yeah, keep. Whatever.”

The game starts up again. Buttons click, clacking typewriters that aren’t able to keep up with the letters, syllables, words, essays, epics thrashing about at the back Spiers’ throat, forced to the front of his mind like that one scene from Alien where the larva bursts from John Hart’s chest in a bloody, messy eruption-

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Muck cackles, Malarkey’s agitated whispers turn into violent denial, cries of “No! No _way_!” And then a resonant, booming “ _Arrrrgh!!_ ”

Spiers concurs.

Outside: there’s a strong wind, a howl through the gap of the windowsill and the frame around the glass, wolves; lonely is something Spiers is and never wants to be again. Unchanged by amount of wishing, trying, tiring, impatiently existing to move along, stop with the _always_ and _forever_. These thoughts come and go, defrost like snowflakes, there and then suddenly… not. Confusion and desperation; grasping for clarity but pushing everything away; radio silence surrounded by his friends; buzzing feeds that empty the meaningful words of mentors and acquaintances, past and present.

His heart snaps, wails, strains to sound itself over the alphas on his windowsill. Gene and Babe are cloud gazing and eating chocolate bars, large paper-plastic cups from the milkshake bar on campus.

On a vague, faulty autopilot- the one that sees him trudging glassy-eyed around campus with no shoes and no shirt and no idea what the fuck he’s supposed to be doing –he moves to the doorway of his room.

“That’s something I could never give ‘em. Solidity, reassurance. ‘Cuz I’m so hopelessly fuckin’ insecure, or some bullshit like that.” The ever-darkened room is red and smoky from staring out in the pale, frosted light his window subjected him to. He probably looks threatening. Leaning on the doorway, a glinting smile in the mock twilight, that look in his eyes Toye says is either saying _‘I’ll murder you in .7 seconds if you so much as open your mouth’_ or _‘we are so very small and all alone in the universe and I’m trying not to let this crush me by being and empty husk of a human being, inches from crying at any given time so I act like a very aggressive snail with the biggest shell in the fuckin’ world_ ’. Sometimes, Toye can be smart. Then he says something like _“five lots of five isn’t fifty, is it?”_ and Spiers responds with _“and you call me dyslexic”_. That’s usually when people laugh and give Toye shit for ‘out-dumbing’ the dyslexic kid. Spiers’ considers himself to be the kind of guy to take a home-hitting joke in stride, letting it take its toll later. Everything gets processed by his fears- it all comes back to haunt him later, nothing is ever brushed under the rug. What can be, when there never was a rug in the first place? Who is he kidding, he brushes it under his skin and trains it to stay quiet in his veins until no one’s looking- hen he burns it out, fritters them in coals of burning tobacco.

Cutting through the background of the morgue that is his thoughts, Kitty tells him she’s not a counselor and that he’s gotta learn to deal with it, or find someone to help him deal with it.

 _“Lie down and measure my grave...”_ Spiers sings, mostly to himself, and ignores Kitty.

Muck looks over at Malarkey, goes to say something, then doesn’t- and after some Assassins Creed banter, Malarkey shoots him a weighted look between one Venetian bonfire fire and the next.

Kitty grunts and walks all the way across the room to smash their skulls together- their cries asking her why she did it go unanswered, and it gets Spiers to laugh, which is always nice.

 

***

 

[“Bull.” O’Keefe says.]

“Listen up kiddly-winks!” Bull shouts, ignoring O’Keefe because he’s simply _that_ kind of guy.

Bull now regrets every life choice he’s ever made as the entire auditorium breaks out into hysterics of varying forms: laughter, indignancy, anger, arguments.

“Bull we are _actors_ , not adolescents!” Webster shrieks from the twirling jumps he’s got going on.

[“Bull.” O’Keefe repeats.]

“Some manage to be both!” A voice from backstage- likely to be Toye, as Muck disappeared under the stage an hour ago, and Malarkey is face-down in a bowl of yellow paint –taunts.

“Teenagers are shit anyway.” Kitty hums into the microphone.

 _“Oi, I’m nineteen!”_ Babe screeches through the intercom.

[“Bull.” O’Keefe deadpans.]

“Fuck off, _Troye Sivan_!” Liebgott gives his glass-distorted face the finger, so Babe starts blasting Wild, the entire hall scream-singing along:

_“LEAVE THIS BLUE NEIGHBORHOOD, NEVER KNEW LOVING COULD HURT THIS GOOD-”_

“Babe you are _not helping!_ ” By now, Bull has several migraines in different areas of his skull and additional ones in places he didn’t know could _be subjected to migraines._

[“Bull.” O’Keefe grouses.]

_“Yeah well you’re a shit director! Your main can’t dance for fuck-”_

“Oi!” Lieb decides to get involved, “You skinny shit, I’d like to see you down here shakin’ that nonexistent ass!”

“ _Hypocrite_!” Webster sings, shirtless, spinning past Liebgott’s flustered, frustrated face as he tries to step in time with Kitty.

[“Bull.” O’Keefe bores.]

“Stop starin’ at my fuckin’ ass, asshole!!” He jabs back, shoving his sweaty hair out of his eyes so he can properly see where his feet are going. Not that _sight will help, Liebgott, you have to feel the music!_ Fuck Kitty. Fuck her and her bullshit wisdom.

Babe continues with: _“And half your artists are covered in paint and presently rolling all over one of the backdrops-”_

“We don’t have any rollers! The fuck else do you expect us to do?! Use paintbrushes?!!!” Malarkey yells as Muck- popping up from a stage floor hatch -rolls him across the huge plasterboard, leaving a trail of gritty yellow ink, stamped with Muck’s footprints and the crease patterns of Malarkey’s shorts. Toye flicks brown and dark red dye as they go, for a patchier, worn effect on the to-be Street Front #2.

[“Bull.” O’Keefe warns in his Officer voice, for no particular reason other than to see if the older man will notice.]

“Toye, that was _green_!!” Muck yelps.

“Call it moss!” Toye shouts back, Malarkey cackling as he’s rolled vehemently along the floor.

“I’ll call _you_ moss!” The ginger parrots.

“That ain’t an insult to me!!”

“Yeah but it’s an insult to lichens in general, as a biological family group!!”

“ _Fuck you_ , mosses and lichens aren’t the same thing!! ‘Sides, lichens would be _privileged_ to have me share their DNA!”

“Skip! Joe! Would you shut up for three seconds??!” Bull bellows, effectively cutting all noise save for Webster’s phone hooked up to a small stage amp: Fall Out Boy’s _Dance Dance_ playing with a forlornly enthusiastic beat.

A second of stunned silence later, Bull huffs.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , O’Keefe, what is it?”

“I made you a _fucking_ _sweater_.”

O’Keefe hands Bull a knitted blue and grey sweater with “THANKS FOR PUTTNIG UP WITH US” embroidered on the front. He then walks to the edge of the stage and sits, hunched, twirling his baton between his fingers.

“Thanks, O’Keefe, I love it.” He tussles it on to his too-wide body.

“You spelt ‘putting’ wrong.” Toye intones, even though he’s somewhere in the ethers of back-stage-dom and can’t see any of the happenings onstage.

“It’s _fine_. Adds character. Now! You’re all bursting to get back to it, so: sleepover. This Sunday. Four days time. Everyone here, overnight, team bonding, it’ll be a laugh. Hopefully no one will die but with you lot I can never know. Carry on.”

“Oh hell _no_.” Lieb mutters- at the same time Kitty whoops “Hellahellahella!!”, and Muck bitches about non-vascular lines and the genetic makeup of bryophytes to the point of madness, driving Malarkey to get up and walk him off into the curtains. Web returns to dancing, turning Omen up as high as he can; Bull’s letting him practice for an exam, just as he’s allowing Malarkey to set up an easel on the balcony of the sound booth once he finishes the set, and letting Gene curl up with Babe in said booth to work on his essay about the difference in endocrine system of canines, felines, and equines. Babe keeps Gene happy with a supply of milkshakes, seeing as he’s got shit all to do with the dates moving so slowly- orchestra rehearsals still a distant gold sticker on the calendar, and opening night even more so. On the topic of _dates_ , Gene and Babe are waiting for a time they’re both free. Between a term essay and a full composition plus recoding of original work, the pair are more _‘let’s be study buddies but also flirt as our lives fall apart due to this assessment’_ than ‘ _study is code for making out, so do you wanna make out, wait fuck that defeated the purpose didn’t it’_. It’s hard to move faster with so much work weighing each respective under the weather. Anyway, Gene’s fairly fine having a break from romantics in general [everyone and their dog argue that ‘Spiers’ did not equate in any way, shape, or form to ‘romance’], and Babe is too damn _awkward_ to make a gesture more obvious than buying milkshakes and allowing Gene to put a few notes in his composition.

He even let Gene screw around on his bass guitar.

If that doesn’t say trust, Babe doesn’t know _what_ to do.

True music-nerd flirting.

Meanwhile… on the stage…

_“My mind would rule my heart- I didn't pay attention to the light in the dark- It left me torn apart…”_

Lieb is drooling. Only a little. Who wouldn’t be, though, when Webster’s trim waist is swiveling in perfect circles, feet scarcely touching the floor as he moves in a graceful rhythm, body glowing gold with sweat under the tinted lamps. Kitty can’t take much more of Lieb’s listless, flailing arms and clumsy trampling around their sequencing of their movements. Neither can Bull, apparently; the ever-present direction equally as frustrated for crew; suffering the off-putting clashes Liebgott causes whenever he turns the wrong way, puts the wrong arm out.

“Oh, _Web_ , teach the boy how to dance for the _love_ of _god_.” Bull grinds out from his half-construed director’s chair: Muck has stolen the back and the left arm of it to go towards fuck knows what. “We have time to grow old watching Liebgott dance his way to death, but not today.”

Muck remarks [somewhere in the ethers that is backstage] in the midst of Lieb’s and Web’s remarkably flared tension as they stare one another down from opposite sides of the stage: “I don’t know whether that was a failed Lord of the Rings quote or a… actually, I don’t know what the fuck to think anymore.”

Toye is just as oblivious to the uncannily voiceless stage; a battleground on he morning of war: “Waiting for Godot!! Uncultured _swine_!”

A squeal and a bang no one heeds or gives a shit about.

Lieb isn’t happy about this decision, but all is muted by Babe rerouting the speaker routing for Webster’s amp- he plays the ending of Omen through the auditorium’s sound system. Webster is just as apprehensive as the now cast-wide unanimous agreement as Liebgott.

Kitty tries to get the Jets back into their routine: her attempt is miserably failed when Webster aggravates Liebgott, drawing the group’s attention back to them. Curse them and their potent, unresolved sexual tension.

“Maybe I could just run onstage for his dancing parts-” Webster tries to suggest, but is cut down by the very person he’s trying to save.

“ _Bitch_ , you can try on these clothes, but you _can’t_ fill these shoes.”

Lipton is the only one who whoops, getting the reference, but quickly shuts up when Kitty shouts at him to dance better [everyone calls her a fucking tyrant- not to her face, of course, or else theirs would unfortunately take on a concave shape]. Web motions him over in a way that would be flirtatious, were Liebgott not so incredibly dense and guarded; feeling condescended, he kicks and scuffs at the floor as he trudges over to the half-dressed man.

Webster puts on playlist yet, of course, they keep arguing and don’t get much done. Some soft, guitar-y acoustic song plays through the speakers. Babe huffs about a waste of electricity as the pair continue to shout each other deaf. He’s moments away from shutting off the connection to the amp when _something_ _happens_.

“You’re never going to dance _with_ me and you’ll never _teach_ me to dance properly because you are a hopeless piece of _shit-_ ”

 _“We-ell i-it-”_ As soon as the first harmonized vocal chord blares, Web lunges for Lieb’s hands, dragging the lanky boy in a quick spin before pulling their bodies close together: he already has a pair’s piece prepared for nevershoutnever’s _only good song_ [save for Can’t Stand It], as far as he’s concerned, and Lieb can’t get away fast enough, his repulsion puny to his own ears.

“Oi- fuckin’- I _never agreed to this- !!”_ But then they’re moving, albeit a bit awkwardly because Lieb has no _fucking_ _clue_ what to do when the song picks up with a basic ukulele chord progression.

 _“Started with your hips-”_ Webster distances them a little, one broad hand grabbing at Lieb’s bony hip and pushing him from side to side, wavering with the syllables of the vocalist, before twisting his body around in a three-sixty spin; their linked hand keeps them together. When his fingers catch and click painfully, he realizes Webster is mirroring him, far more naturally and in a stylish sway. Fucking _swaying,_ like he’s some sort of _professional._ Lieb’s immediate, pressing response is _no fucking way, this isn’t a chance for you to make me look like shit, bring it the fuck on_. His second response is _god damn that’s hot_ but who’s he gonna stay that to? _Webster?!_ Yeah fuckin’ right. Thoughtlessly, but not unwillingly, he throws himself into the dance, all his attention honed to Webster’s body and his every inch of movement, struggling to match it, to best it where he can: _“So I moved on to your lips-”_ Webster’s shoulder scrapes across his chest as he moves in again, turning to walk away. Lieb thinks he’s only imagines Webster’s finger swiping across his mouth until he feels a sharp nail press into his dimpled cheek. _“To take a chance, ask for a dance…”_

Lieb takes the cue of a retreating body to stalk, hurry to follow: he does so as the song tells him- _“To take a chance, ask for a dance-”_ he’s frowning when Webster keeps his back to him in exaggerated spins; finally, Lieb gives up and grab’s Webster’s sweaty bicep and spins him- the man goes pliantly, willing to fall in towards Liebgott: _“’Cuz you’re the cutest thing on this side of the world-”_ Of course that’s the moment Liebgott realizes Webster has set him up to be the vocalist; narrating both his attempts to ‘dance with’ and eventual heartbreak over his love interest.

“ _Fuck_ you.” He grunts, in Webster’s smirking, content, fucking _way too pleased_ face, “and _fuck_ your dancing.”

 _“We call our homes-”_ Liebgott takes Webster’s hand by force and rips him in a violent arc, spinning with near-perfect counterbalance before stepping to and under Webster’s right arm: Webster, that damned _fuckwit_ , keeps up and spreads their now-linked hands, stepping in the opposite direction. Lieb repeats the maneuver to the other way. Webster tries to pry on of their held hands apart, so Lieb tightens his grip: the result is a shoulder-shimmy followed by a simultaneous loss of balance. It all happens so fast and Lieb thinks _I’m getting the hang of this,_ among other things _._ They go back, right feet first, and Lieb shoves to push Web off balance- he gets pulled along, whirled around again, _“But I feel so all alone, half of the time-”_ and the two of them just keep going, moving faster and faster, out of control across the stage. A few kids have to jump to get out of their way and as the song’s pace increases towards the chorus, Lieb realizes that the melodic almost-scale tinkles aren’t weird synthetic instruments on the track- they’re his and Webster’s laughter; giddy, free, pitchy. _“We gotta live with what we got and I got nothing so I pray you take my hands so we can conjure up something rad. AND-”_

It may look like a mad wrestling-battle-that-somehow-became-a-dance to the rest of the room… nonetheless; Lieb is having the _time of his_ life. During the chorus, Lieb gets a little lost as their bodies move around one another- sometimes mirroring, sometimes synchronized, occasionally attacking or moving against one another, truing to push one another around. All the while, they cackle, laughing until their lungs burn more than their legs- fast footwork, the occasional kick and scrape. As the chorus abruptly ends, Webster notches his hand in Lieb’s elbow and pulls him to the center stage mark in the flash of silence between phrases, spinning them to face the front of the stage. His warm body is flat against the back of Liebgott’s, stage lights sweltering and dousing his vision in over-exposure-

Now, apparently, it’s Webster’s turn. Which- oh. _Hell_ no.

 _“So I moved to the dance floor-”_ Liebgott takes the lead, striding in front of Webster and somehow pulling him around his body with a weird backwards grip that comes pretty close to dislocating his shoulder. Web rolls with it, but the look in his eyes tells Liebgott that he’s nowhere near as in control as he believes.

 _“With instincts and nothing more-”_ Webster’s upper body goes down, a delicate curve showing off rippling oblique muscles. There’s a quarter-note of confusion- then Liebgott’s feet are off the floor, two thick forearms are squeezed, enclosing his upper thighs, the air whooshing about his ears like blades of a fan:

“Web! Put me _down!_ ” Webster obliges, but not until the line of the song ends, after Lieb starts laughing as well, _“I had ants in my pants; I did the boogie dance, and there was nothing to do but laugh-”_

He places Lieb down riskily, avoiding the stage’s sheer end by a hairsbreadth; Lieb throws in an exaggerated lean over the ledge, their hands clawed in one another’s forearms to counterweight. _“So I took another leap, hoping to sweep you off your feet-“_ Web only just pulls him back before releasing him and bounding down the stage, half-sprinting, half-leaping; Lieb pelts [rather ungracefully, sports was never his forte] with a laugh and a raspy “Hey! Get back here!”, eating his words when Web halts and ducks again, one arm at Liebgott’s knees, the other barring over his back, “Nonono _no-!_ ”- _“I said, baby maybe we could bust this joint, see if my place is open to chill?”_ Webster lifts him clean off the floor, twirling as he goes, Lieb’s offended yelling transitions into giggles too many times to count as he’s torn between scolding the- clearly stronger –man, and enjoying the belly-dropping tornado Webster’s swinging them in. Over too soon, Webster puts him down and keeps spinning out of control, like he can’t stop.  Two choruses and an instrumental pass when they lose themselves in their previous pattern: push, pull, whirl, pick up [Lieb attempting to lift Webster partway through the instrumental and ending up throwing himself on the floor in shame], use every square millimeter of stage space, occasional purposeful clash or heel on a foot, drive each other back and forth, driving each other _crazy_ -

 _“-All I thought about was lovin' on you.”_ Webster takes a step back and hunches his shoulders, lifting his arms to mimic playing the tiny guitar flourish at the end of the song.

The entire cast bursts out into applause, catcalls, and all other manners of general worship. Webster’s massive grin and crinkly eyes is worth more than all the cheering in the world, Lieb knows, but refuses to acknowledge.

“Maybe I _am_ getting the hang of this.” Lieb huffs, not sure whether to be disbelieving or cocky. Webster tries to drag him a notch below, naturally.

“Hah, in your _dreams_.”

“Before you know it…” Heading back over to Kitty, Lieb shouts in a surprisingly mellow voice: “I’ll be a better dancer than you _ever_ were.” He _smiles_ at Webster over his shoulder, and a small piece of Webster’s heart melts. He doesn’t know what else to do, so he smiles back; he was already smiling, so now he looks a little on the wrong side of manic. Lieb snorts, scowls, and abruptly stalks back over with all the manner of someone who’s got a guy holding a gun to his back:

“Show me that cool routine again. Maybe Tony and Bernardo can solve their differences with an intense tango number instead of murder.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

Lipton, throughout this whole ordeal, has been pissing his pants with laughter and telling anyone who cares [no one does, Lip, no _one does, go home you idiot_ ]: “ _Falling apart_ my ass, more like falling in love to half time.”

 

***

 

“So I want to use Omen or something upbeat and cool…” Webster muses aloud in the empty dance studio; he often talks to himself while shaking out a good tune or two… or three… or ten. It’s the best way for him to think things through and thank _fuck_ Winters bothers to throw a rock at the window before he comes in. _Some_  of the things Web says in the studio can _not_ ne repeated in _real life_ , _ever_. It’s something for the fantastical world of booming music and distorting figure, not the tedious pauses and strait matter and strict matters of living. “Finals practice: that’s what I’m doing. _No Liebgott allowed_ , you hear that?!” Airplanes by Five Seconds of Summer explodes into the guitar solo. “Good. _Okay_. I want to be _different_. I don’t want to do the same old drip-drop, classical-and-or-soundtrack from a film, I want something _cool_. Something _me_. 5SOS will get me _so seriously judged it won’t even be funny,_ I _will_ get an F on that sole reason. Fuck everyone who thinks they’re a boy-band. Ugghhhh… Now. _Now_. Now… Fall Out Boy would be good, they always have a great beat- Dance Dance is soooo _ooo_ appropriate but… I did a piece by them at the showcase. Ricky would be cool- Thunder nad Lightning is a little tacky but, _damn_ , it has the perfect tempo and texture modulation, as well as strong beat and bass combinations. Uhhh- _oh!_ Peanut Butter Jelly is the only thing I can think of for electro stuff- didn’t Galantis consumed Lipton’s life for about three days, it was all the bastard would play, before he went back to his usual punk-rock-pop stuff?? Yes! That’s where I’d heard it… but it’s so... so… consistent. Repetitive. Damn clubbing music, fuck this, fuck Lipton and his fucking music culture and his- and. _Oh_ ”.

Webster falls out of the dance exactly three beats before the last bar- of _course_ he was counting, his life depends on it –and races the end of Airplanes and the start of Safety Pin to get to his phone [he did _not_ have Sounds Good Feels Good on shuffle, they just happened to play one after the other, what’re you talking about?]. He has Lip on speed-dial #3, and before he can even think about what to ask, Lipton is already on the other end:

_“Sup man?!”_

“Music! Lip! Good dance music!”

_“What?”_

“What is a good song to dance to?!”

_“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh-”_

“Damnit, now is not the time for hesitation!!”

_“Alpha Dog, Fall Out Boy.”_

“Damn yes!!! I could _totally_ rock the megalomaniac look, right- Fuck no I’ve already used a Fall Out Boy song!!”

_“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck- uuummmmmmm- Hello Brooklyn, All Time Low!”_

“Perfect!”

_“Really?!”_

“I’ll google it now!”

_“Ack, idiot!”_

“Thankyou!!”

He hangs up- calling back in a second as an afterthought.

_“What?”_

“Tempo?”

_“Upbeat.”_

“Lyrics?”

_“…Devil may care, taking over the world, world ending, nightlife.”_

“Awesome. Oh! Did I say I could have a partner for this project? I can’t remember.”

_“Idiot. Yes, but no one wants to dance with you because you do non-conventional, stupid shit.”_

“Perfect-o! Thanks Lip!”

_“Jackass.”_

As Webster searches the song up, he ponders. His previous dance partners disliked him solely because he was personal and… fun. Okay, that’s rude: he was over-enthusiastic, a little over-eager, and often got a bit too ‘in the way’ for the duo to shine proportionately. They were either too polite or too impatient to deal with him.

“Liebgott…”

Liebgott is in no way polite to Webster, and he has a patience to out-do or overcome Webster: it’s such a fierce race in both of their minds that… it could work. They could be counterbalanced, perfect placements and fluid movements; it takes like minds to do a good duet, but symmetry to have total unity. And _fuck_ if it doesn’t excite the _hell_ out of Webster- it’s once in a blue fucking moon that he finds someone able to keep up with him; he may be the tiniest bit turned on as well, but. That’s between him and the studio mirrors, the early-night light.

A pebble smacks against the window, so Webster hurries his ruminations along.

“It could. Work. _Fuck_.” He _should_ forget this- right now, he should stop thinking about _this_ , and start making a _solo_ piece to Hello Brooklyn _which_ , now that he listens, is kinda perfect:

 _“Let the good times roll, we can let go- Everybody knows there’s a party at the end of the world..._ ”

“Ashton Irwin, you are right! Hell _yeah_ there’s a party at the end of the world- Alex Gaskarth, you’re a legend! Fuck!!”

“Webster!” Winters comes to a screeching halt, Webster hears the slightest scuff of skin on tiles at the bottom of the stairs. Idiot must’ve fell over. How unlike Winters. It was still practically soundless, though.

“What?!”

“Liebgott says fuck you! Also, Harry made pie!”

“I’ll be down in ten seconds!”

Webster smirks to himself, knowing he’ll have trouble finding sleep tonight. He races down the stairs, taking Winters’ skinned knees, shins, and those knobbly bones on the top of his feet with a motherly cluck.

“Spare me, Lip will mother-hen me to death.”

“Your fault for being a fucking _fool_.”

“Hah. What were you doing up there, anyway?”

“Pondering the meaning of life, crying, dancing, that sort of thing.”

“The usual.”

“Fuck off.”

 _Watch your ass, Joseph Liebgott,_ is all his exhaustedly ecstatic mind reminds him about _, I’ll play my cards carefully, and you’ll be dancing with me in no time_.

“Is dance an euphemism for sex?”

It’s then that Webster realizes he’d thinking out loud, biting his tongue and slapping Winters’ arms when he cackles. “Dance, oh _Web_ , that boy will _never_ dance with you, especially not for _your_ _benefit_. Don’t hedge your romanticised bets on it, on your _assessment_ no less. Setting yourself up to lose, right now, I’m telling you.”

Back in the apartment, Lipton has installed a deadbolt, claiming his band is out to get him. Harry throws the tinfoil roll he was using to cover a roast chicken in.

Webster walks in on Lipton: completely encased and screaming in thin metal sheets, and Harry: cackling on the floor, rolling this way and that, clutching his stomach, in fear of it collapsing and rolling away.

He goes straight to his room and gets on his phone, ignoring Winter’s protests, demands of “quality family time, you punk-ass kid!!” Naturally, Lipton immediately fusses over Winter’s injuries, breaking out of his tin-foil-y tomb to fetch the first aid kit. It’s as if he could smell the hurt.

 

***

 

Lieb is sitting in the café at three thirty, as promised- one seat down from where he’d organized, just in case the person he’s been texting for the past month isn’t all he’d made out to be. Blending perfectly with the pasty café scene, built to hide university students as they catch their fix of caffeine or sugar, he watches the door. He’s got a case of six caramel donuts, busy licking the icing off of one… when his literal _darkest nightmare_ saunters in from the greyed, dooms-day-ish weather like a ray of fucking sunshine.

“Are you- _fuck_ , are you _shitting_ _me_ , fuck.” He grouches to the now-5-pack of glazed pastries, ducking behind a menu. He’s torn between forcing the guy out, kicking and screaming, and hiding, hoping and _praying_ Webster doesn’t recognize him until his friend comes- and retains the decency to not come embarrass him. It’s not that Lieb expects much, he-

“ _No_.” To his dismay, copper meets sky blue, and Webster nearly throws down his latte takeaway cup in surprise.

“Fuck, you can _not_ be here!”

They’re shouting over the twenty-odd patrons in the café, the barista shooting their rude, vulgar words a disapproving glare while her coworker looks on in enjoyment.

“ _I_ can’t be here!? You’re fucking one to talk, _I_ was here _first!!_ ”

“Fucking- can we take this outside?” Webster whispers harshly, “I’m _meeting_ _someone_ here soon, you will _not_ fuck this up.” He hustles Lieb in the direction of the door, the man barely having time to pick up his box of donuts. He drags it out, closing and resealing every tab in the box as Webster whirls about anxiously, his foot tapping persistently. “Take your fucking time, please!”

“Oh, Webber’s out for a _date_ is he?” Lieb jaunts, laughing as he walks as leisurely as he can manage without looking as though he’s slow-motion running- as pleasingly enraged as that’d make Webster, he refrains from making himself look like an idiot for someone as _unimportant_ to him as Webster. He’s joking, _obviously_ , when he sniggers, “Seem nervous. Maybe I could help you unwind?”

“Jealous?”

“You wish.”

“What the fuck are _you_ doing here, then?”

“Getting fucking _donuts_ , the _fuck_ does it look like?!” They make it outside without killing one another, amazingly, “Do you fucking _insist_ on knowing every minute detail of my life? Fuck.” Lieb tries to decide whether it’d be worth texting his friend now and postponing, to save both him _and_ his text confidant from the displeasure of dealing with Webster. He’s oh-so tempted to hang around and ruin Webster’s date, but the potential of coming off as clingy or, as Webster said, _jealous_ , is a notion as unbecoming as it is untrue. Plus, the tightness in the expression of the other man hints that attempting to mess with his date _will_ end in mass destruction of some description.

“You’re to belligerent for your own good, has no one told you anger looks _shit_ on you-” In a flash, Webster herds Liebgott up against a wall. To anyone else, it’d look like an intimate moment between two lovers, but Liebgott is seriously five seconds from punching Webster in the jaw and making a run for it. Webster, on the other hand, is a moment away from standing up his mysterious text-friend and pouncing on the boy he has flattened against the bricks outside the café. “What, did they lie? Say that you’re so _pretty_ when you’re mad-” He huffs, breath cool against Lieb’s hot neck. Liebgott seems to puff up in indignancy at the word _pretty_ , and you can bet your _ass_ Webster will be filing that information away for later use.

“Oh, I can get real ugly real quick, you mother _fucker_!” The shorter man can just about _taste_ the strong scent of cherry lip balm when he leans forward in a bid to get Webster out of his way. Webster merely jabs him in the shoulder, folding him back against the wall with ease.

“Stay the _fuck_ away, or you’ll fucking regret it.”

“Like I’d like to stay _anywhere_ you are, dipshit.”

“ _Good_.”

 

Untrue to his word, because since when did _Webster_ order him the fuck around, Lieb lingers in the sewer-stinking passage besides the café, peering in through the window again and again to see Webster sitting alone, sometimes on his phone but mostly surveying the door and the people around him. Five minutes later, he’s chucked his phone on the seat next to him and watching the door unwaveringly, the cheery environment flowing past him. Twenty minutes pass, and still nothing. Webster barely blinks, and neither does Lieb once he realizes Web has zoned out on the entryway, people ineffective as they pass his line of sight. Naturally, he takes those pointless forethoughts- whether he’d pick Webster’s attention from the growing crowd, avidly seeking shelter from the ghastly afternoon –and stuffs them somewhere only unlockable at three am and-or after several shots of hard vodka.

A few minutes past four, Webster gets bored of waiting and exits quickly, pulling headphones out of his pocket and pacing down the street without noticing Lieb, his burnt-down cigarette, or his hawk-like, heavy gaze.

 

***

 

**1530: Hey! Where are you?**

_1632: ah, man I left my phone at home! i was going to meet you, but this guy turned up and I had to punch him in the face and go home_

**1632: ??? Were we at the same place?**

_1632: dude, what time did you get there!? i was there at like half-past_

**1634: Me too?**

_1634: we can meet up some other time? sorry, i didn’t know that asshat was gonna be there_

**1634: Who is this bastard so I can kick him in the nuts?! Gdi**

_1634: now that’d be a clue, wouldn’t it ;]_

**1635: f u**

_1635: ahahahahahahahaha!!! the mighty ‘look at my punctuation and grammar’ god is reduced to text talk and swearing text talk no less =DDD_

**1635: Fuck you I always swear and fuck you, you deserve it**

_1635: =]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]_

**1636: =|**

_1636: =DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD_

**1636: =/**

_1636:==============DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD_

**1637: Fucking Christ**

**1637: =]**

_1638:====DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD_

_1638: =]_

**1638: Are you done?**

**1639: Oh god**

**1639: I was JOKING**

_1639: k_

**1639: You’re a fuck**

_1640: illlyyyyyyy <3<3_

**1640: Asshole**

**1640: <3 ily too**

_1640: =D_

**1640: =D**

_1640: pathetic_

**1641: Um fuck you, you said ily first, you crossed the awkward text-lovers bridge first**

_1641: first of all_

_1641: what the fuck_

_1641: kind of metaphor was that_

_1641: secondly_

_1642: idk, you’re pretty awesome?_

_1642: weirder things have happened?_

_1642: i don’t even know your name?_

_1642: yo ? friend ?_

**1643: If that was you trying to say you think you love me, then you’re pretty awesome too**

_1643:=DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD_

_1643: i copy-pasted_

_1643: =D_

**1643: I hate you**

_1643: no you love me_

**1643: =D**

_1644: \o/_


	4. If He Hangin' We Bangin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well.  
> One chapter to go ?!!!???  
> Lots of crap happens here: Muck's lab, heaps of dancing, fucking Sparwood or whatever their ship name is, Baberoe too kinda but they've been low-key together since the beginning  
> Also texting: forgive my pure 5SOS trash-ness, I am in so deep for these australian dipshits and i can't handle. Nope. 900% done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soz for spelling mistakes i cbf to edit because I'm sickkkkkk  
> not that i'd usually edit anyway =]]]]]]]

 

“Kitty, I’m stepping outside for a bit if Bull asks.”

“What, can’t handle Web’s se-”

“No, I need… I need some air. Or. Something.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Just… I don’t know. Stifled.”

“Go listen to Outer Space and chill, you piece of pop-punk trash.”

“Fuck the hell off, I am not.”

 _My mind is whirling_ , Liebgott rails internally, exiting through the backstage doors, sitting down against the wall, _don’t think it’ll come down any time soon. How do I know this? I don’t. I don’t know fucking anything- Fuck, listen to me, I sound like Spiers_ … The sky is clear of clouds and shines a striking blue, the glitter of windows reflecting it in azure beams. The art center glows with the new coat of pastel cobalt, and basically every aspect of Lieb’s life seems to be blue at the moment. Knowing that the other students inside are on lunch break and will probably be too distracted to notice his absence, he takes out his phone and opens messenger to the most recent contact, texting the first thing coming to mind:

_1023: another day, the walls are built to keep me safe, I can’t escape, it’s too late_

The response is immediate:

**1023: *Dramatically violins***

He smiles, hugging his phone to his chest in the same way Lip does when he spots a cute dog GIF on tumblr, in the same way he’s noticed Spiers cuddles the rainbow unicorn plushie Kitty bought him as a joke for his 15th birthday, in the same way Muck holds Malarkey. Lieb’s disgusted with himself, but that never stops him.

**1024: What’s up?**

_1024: Self-counseling_

**1025: Ouch**

_1025: yeah, it’s about as horrific and painful as it sounds_

_1025: nothing says a happy lunch break from a bunch of loud fuckin nerds like delving into your deepest secrets and thoughts and trying not to cry and kill yourself or something_

**1026: Please tell me you’re not thinking about killing yourself**

_1026: i did, once upon a time_

**1026: Shit**

_1028: but i scared the shit outta my friends and they gave me some great fuckin reason or something and now here i am five years later in a uni with my life feeling semi-on track so dw, i'm just super melodramatic to mask my insecurities and sadness_

**1028: I love you please text me or call me or like tell me where you are if you ever feel like you need to, you actually mean so much to me right now**

_1028: hah did we both just cry into our phones at the same time_

**1028: Omfg you asshole you’re amazing I want to hug you**

_1029: speaking of: when can we try meet again !??!?!?!?!?! I’m literally so busy, man_

**1029: I was about to say! It’s this time of year, maybe we should just go fuck it and wait until after, like**

**1030: Pick a date**

_1030: one sec i'm walkin back to my place_

Lieb jumps up and heads for his apartment, knowing Kitty can vouch for his need of a rest. He’d been up till four this morning on a very unwarranted sugar high, pissing Spiers off so much that he left the building and is yet to return; _yes_ , the perfect alibi, he could claim to be checking up on the crazy existentialist. That is, if Spiers has _actually come back_.

**1030: Kay**

He deems texting and walking too much of a task when he runs into a tree- the same tree, several times -so it isn’t until he’s buried in the soft blankets of his bed that he retypes his idea for meeting the massive fucking nerd he’s kinda fallen in love with. Just a _little_ bit. It’s not Petrarchan love per se, but it is definitely an idealized affair. That, and he probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from waxing overdrawn poetics on the guy’s appearance, when they finally _do_ meet.

_1032: how about an event? we could meet up there- there’s that fashion show? oh, the music thing would be awesome! and dance finals happen to campus-wide viewing…_

**1032: How about this year’s perf. arts. production? What’s it?**

**1032: West side story! I love it!**

_1032: uuh that’s on the 15 th right? cuz i'm out of town then…_

**1032: =[[[[[[[[[**

_1033: sorryyyyyy <3_

**1033: How about the music presentations? They’ll for sure be good**

_1033: music it is! we can finally find out who’s the bigger 5sos fan_

**1033: Oh god**

_1033: it’s me_

**1033: Well, you did take six hours out of your day yesterday to explain Ashton Irwin and why he’s a literal angel from heaven here to save the damned with his drumming**

_1034: you were asking for it, CALM bitch_

**1034: Four-way relationships are totally normal! And HEY! I ship Cake and Mashton after that, so like, you can have a whine**

_1034: ok ok i'm mashpotate and cakeycake af so this will do_

**1034: Be proud**

_1034: v proud_

_1034: v proud father_

**1034: Please no**

_1034: i wouldn’t mind ash to bang me like one of his drums_

**1034: Can’t say I’d be too adverse to that, either**

_1034: oi!_

_1034: he mine, back tf off_

**1035: I guess it’s just fate for up to remain anonymous idiots who fan girl over 5SOS, mostly, and make horrible horrible conversation on the way**

_1035: this would make a good story, tbh_

**1035: *stares into the camera like The Office***

_1035: you’re a fuck and i hate you remind me why i even talk to you_

**1036: Because you love me**

**1036: Depressive bastard**

**1036: Also because I give you painful head canons that you scream over**

_1036: ogfghuytdrsedjfgiuh pls where were we up to ? superpowers_

**1036: Past that, I think… Vampires?**

_1036: werewolf ???!!!1??! pls_

**1037: Exhibit A heh**

**1037: After being abandoned by the boys at a club and left to his own slightly-drunken devices, Ash gets bitten by a wolf in an alleyway and becomes a werewolf and tries to hide it from the boys. He’s successful, mostly, until one night he can’t change back and has to either fake running away mid-tour until he can figure out how to get back… or stay on the tour bus and tell the boys**

_1037: yOU HASDV THIS PREPAREDS DIDN’T YOU YOU ASSSHSOPGAHSRFDNVLK_

_1037: WHUIOS FAGEVVERGACE =GAVE YOUI THE RIGTHHT TO HUIRT ME INT THHIS WAYUIO_

**1038: =D**

**1038: You’re so easy to mess with I love it**

_1038: BUYRWT IF HE STA YEASTHEN HOW DOE S HE_

_1038: WHATF DOEAS HE DO_

**1039: He could either:**

**stay there and scare the shit out of the boys- who scream and yell at the MASSIVE FUCKING WOLF on the tour bus –until he rolls his eyes and has to bark and nip at them until they shut up [in a massive blubbering mess of aussie-young-adult-ness] on the couch in the back of the bus, proceeding to rip his name in to the carpet. It’s Michael that figures it out first, obviously, and starts asking questions with Y/N answers while Cal and Luke continue to say their final prayers on the couch. Mickey then slaps them into reality and explains the situation, telling them to ‘look at his eyes’ when they think he’s crazy and also in love with a dog.**

**They then have to continue with the tour [because of management] without Ash. Maybe [??] after a few shows decide to bring Ash on stage- where Mikey does all sorts of hijinks and convinces everyone he can speak to wolves [makes Ash chase do tricks and chase Luke around and play with Cal and such], and even gets Ash to howl along to the opening/closing of Disconnected**

**Idk how it’d end?**

**Maybe Mikey says ‘I love you’ unthinkingly to Ash on stage and he runs off, transforming back into his human form, idk, that’s so cheesy but yeah**

**OR:**

**He doesn’t tell them and tries so hard to hide it but at one point, but eventually [on a full moon] he attacks someone [probs Michael because I’m a sadist like that] on accident and manages to force himself to transform back, despite the pull on his mind the moon has on him. Everyone is shocked but they then develop a plan to keep him and the other boys safe**

**ENDGAME: he bites everyone in the band and they become a hella pack and also Mikey is his omega and Luke is an alpha too by definition but his temperament/personality allows him to be in Ash’s pack and yeah Pack Leader!Ash**

**1040: Dom Ash with glowing red eyes**

**1040: Eh?**

**1041: EH?**

_1041: you’ve got this all planned out as a fic don’t you_

_1041: it’s too early in the day for this_

_1041: i need a nap_

**1041: You’re surprisingly calm**

_1042: one second_

**1042: ??????**

**1043: Oh my fucking god**

**1043: Was that you I just heard screaming ‘ASHTON IRWIN THE LITERAL SECOND COMING OF CHRIST AND I WANT HIM TO FUCK ME IN THE ASS’ into the square?**

_1043: yes_

_1043: yes it was_

**1043: I love you so much**

 

***

 

He really has no idea why Bull calls it a ‘sleepover’. It’s five in the morning, and Webster is part of this cult-ish circle, more candles than the fucking Phantom of the Opera, more screaming than the movie Scream. Actually, there isn’t _that_ much screaming in Scream, compared to some of the horror films Webster has seen. But- that’s unimportant right now. _Why_ is he thinking about horror when he’s trapped with a group of people, effectively camping indoors late at night where anything could be lurking behind the curtains, under the stage- _Okay_ , time to stop thinking about serial killers.

They’re talking about their ambitions and futures and it is not fun at all, nothing is ever going to be fun again, seeing as they were talking about music half an hour ago but Web had gotten in to an argument with…

Yeah.

“Wait, so none of you knew what you wanted to do?” Webster’s abovementioned thorn in his ass asks, a little vulnerable, but he doesn’t tease because Lieb had absolutely _shouted him down_ in their last argument. He can practically see the steam still rising from his ears.

“Apart from Muck-” Malarkey grouches around a yawn; he gets grumpy when he’s kept up too late. Muck thinks it’s adorable, prodding his ginger friend to keep him awake, Malarkey nipping at his fingers whenever he does. _That_ , everyone else can agree, is adorable. Malark being a sassy little shit isn’t cute at all, and whoever put that idea into Muck’s head should be thrown into the sun.

“Muck aside: you guys really didn’t know?”

“Well, some of us had, like, some kind of degree of aim? I’m certain I don’t want to do anything involving heavy science, but need to be connected to music, so- sound design it was.” Babe mumbles from his right, Gene curled up to his chest, their tangled legs sticking out the end of their shared sleeping bag. “Kitty-”

“I like to perform. Make people laugh, bring them to tears- I never told you guys about my YouTube channel, did I? _Good_. But- I was considering the performing arts in music… it was just…”

“Too intense?” Babe asks her when no one else will.

“Yeah. In a different sense to acting, it’s just-”

“Painful.” Lipton whispers, faraway and agonized, “So very painful.”

“There you go.” Kitty points gun fingers at him, he smiles back from behind a shield of sheet music he claimed he _must memorize or Horton will have my head on a fucking bassoon spike and put it on the top of the music center for all to see._ “Muck seriously _was_ the only one who knew exactly what his future would be.” She continues, Malarkey groaning and rolling over Muck, Winters, and Harry in quick succession.

“He’s also the least sane,” He says once he’s settled at Kitty’s side, a safe distance from his best friend, “Yeah-”

“Year seven science… that was it for me.” Muck says dreamily, looking off into the distance as though he can see the scene before his very eyes, “Day two of the first term- I walk in and see these nozzle things on each bench. We all sit down and Mrs. Grogan- yes, Kit’s mum, don’t look so shocked because Kitty got her dad’s brains -goes ‘alright, we’ll be covering the basics of our scientific apparatus today. Who here has ever used a Bunsen burner before?’ No hands go up, and she goes on to explain how gas comes out of the nozzle and we light it up and I just. Poof. _Lightbulb_. So I turn one of the nozzles and get some matches from the drawers under the table, try to light it- she starts screaming, everyone kinda flails away from my general area, and…” He flares his hands in an arch, a serene, creepy smile on his face.

“Boom?” Webster prods when he gazes lovingly at the dark corner of the hall for a little too long.

“Fuckin’ ka-boom.” Whispers Muck, his grin fading to a smirk. “Then, of course, I was almost expelled for half-exploding the new science classrooms, but. That was when I knew. I _knew_ … I want to _science_.”

“And science he has. You should see the state of their bedroom, it’s-” Kitty is interrupted by two blurs of bodies flying onto her.

“Kitty! You can’t _say_ that shit here, we don’t know _who’s_ watching!”

Webster shuffles back a little, despite being on the opposite side of the circle to their flailing ball of limbs.

“You guys…” Turning to Lieb, a snoring Roe-Babe huddle away from him, Webster drawls on Liebgott’s mental group who has kinda taken over the drama space, “…are completely insane.”

Lieb just laughs- a small, quiet blare –and lies back to look at the ceiling.

“Get fucking used to it, Webber boy. I think we’re here to stay.”

“I’d rather throw myself in a pit of acid.” He snarls, completely without fight.

“I’m sure Muck can arrange that.” Is Liebgott’s reply, then a tired, “Get used to it…” surrounded by his sleepy, squeaking yawn. Webster coos in his head- outwardly, he snorts in what he hopes is disgust.

“Definitely could.” Webster mutters to himself, curling up in the nest of enormous pillows Muck constructed for him. The last thing he hears is an exchange between O’Keefe and Malarkey, whispering as Muck goes on and on about the set design to Kitty- she really doesn’t give a shit and just wants to sleep, Web can hear it in her ‘mhm, yeah, cool’s.

“Hey Malark?”

“Yeah, O’Sullivan?”

“I- I was just wondering… like, I don’t wanna be invasive or nothing but…”

“Spit it out, O’Brian, I don’t got all night.”

“Are you and Muck… y’know…”

“O’Donnell, I don’t know much about nothing so you’re gonna have to dumb it real down for me there, buddy-”

“My name is O’Keefe!”

“Get to the point… O…”

“Are you and Muck da-”

“Oakenshield.”

“Fuck.”

“Obernewtyn.”

“Stop.”

“Over-the-m-”

“Are you and Muck dating?”

“Define dating?”

“I don’t fucking know, have you had sex?”

“Sex ain’t dating, buddy.”

“Have you gone on a date?”

“Again, define-”

“ _Fucking hell_ \- are you in a relationship exceeding good friends?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Have you _seen_ how he looks at you?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re not together?”

“Yep.”

“You… you _are_ aware-”

“Yep-”

“Do you even wanna hear what I got to say-”

“Nope.”

“So you just assume you know exactly what I’m gonna ask-”

“Yep.”

“Are you _even_ _gay_?”

“Ey, I mean, I’m not one for labels. I just go by whatever, whenever, wherever- wait, what were we talking about? I got distracted thinking about his smile, sorry.”

“Fucking shit.”

 

***

 

“ _Guess_ who’s in a polyamorous relationship, had two literal dicks up his ass literally five minutes ago, and is now moving in to the ‘Palboynere’ apartment?!“ Toye boasts as he rushes in to the apartment, a very noticeable limp in his step.

“That _literally_ sounds like a disease!” Muck yells over the din of a Black Flag ship battle and Toye packing his possessions hastily, mumbling ‘ow’s and general groans of confusion about what to take and what to leave behind; evidently unaware that he’s moving the total expanse of a few hundred meters and some staircases, not an entire state or continent.

“And a good one, too!”

“Be safe!” Calls Muck as Toye hurries from his room, stopping to grapple with his four pillows, three duffels slung over his back. “Use protection!!” he adds whilst Toye tries to open the door using his foot; Malarkey adds on the Muck’s warning with “Don’t fuck the dogs!!” which, of course, sends Muck into hysterics.

“That’s our Toye.” Kitty sighs, unheard over the insane cackles of Muck and Malarkey, the crackles of canon fire from the video game, the echoing footsteps and clatters of their friend moving, probably leaving a trail of his things on the way down to the dog-filled apartment. Muck’s phone lights up with an alarm titled ‘CORE REACTOR NEEDS TO BE RESET NOW SO DO IT THIS TIME’, John Barrowman’s cover of You’re So Vain blasting.

“Muck.” Malarkey says after a reasonable length of the infuriating tune, watching on screen as Edward swings through the trees and ruthlessly kills the innocent Caribbean wildlife, blasting his gigantic pirate blunderbusses. “Mucky.” He repeats, Muck continuing to shoot Capuchins, apologizing to Dexter every single time- they never should have had that Ben Stiller marathon- “ _Oi_ , _shithead_!”

“Whaddya want?” Muck responds serenely, the pair of them keeping their eyes on the TV screen.

“Your alarm-”

“I know, I _am_ _sitting_ _right here_.”

“Aren’t you gonna... listen to it?”

“Eh.”

“What’s it for?”

“ _Eh_ -”

“Skippy…”

“It can wait!” He squawks when the character misses his target and a tonne of guards come running at the ringing of the alarm bell. Malarkey stops the real-life alarm that will actually affect their lives by unlocking Muck’s phone.

“That’s what you said last time, you _saw_ what happened to the grass.”

“It was fine.”

“It turned _orange_!”

“Well it’s _hardly_ my fault that there was an imbalance with the separation of ferric oxide, not to mention that mishap with the hadron c-”

“It was entirely your fault!”

“I claim plausible deniability.” Now Malarkey stares at him, dead and angry, but Muck can tell he’s trying _oh so hard_ not to start laughing his head off. He loves it when he does this.

“The alarm said ‘core reactor’, Muck, that better not be _nuclear_.”

“Uhhh…. No, _no_ , psh, why would you think that, of course it isn’t.”

“ _Fucking_ …” He pauses, thinking over the alarm again before asking: “It also said ‘this time’?”

“Well, yeah, probably?”

“How many times have you put this off?”

“Um.”

“Muck.”

“ _Well_ …”

“Muck!”

“Ten minutes?!”

“Are you kidding?! Please- _please_ tell me you’re joking-”

“Okay, yeah,” He remains absent and impassive, rushing Kenway to his boat with a hoard of sword-wielding guards behind him, “Sure, I’m pulling your leg, I-”

“Muck, this is- this is _serious_!! Stop being a dickhead!”

“You _asked_ me to joke, so I-”

“We are going!”

“ _No_!” Muck slides forward on his chest, hugging the PlayStation and kicking his feet when Malarkey tries to tow him to the door, pocketing the phone. “Let me keep- another ten, then I’ll go!”

“Let’s go, right now, come on!” Muck groans and takes the hand offered, getting up. To Malarkey’s annoyance, he walks as slowly as possible out the door and down the hall- he’s very nearly about to pick the guy up and _carry_ him down the stairs when a bundle of students come tearing up the stairwell.

“What’s going on?” Malarkey asks, Muck flopping dramatically against the rail, claiming that it is ‘no time for socializing, what happened to getting to the fucking art center before this supposed nuclear explosion??’.

“The… I don’t even know how to explain it, it’s like- like the arts center is-”

Muck unfreezes, stops the monologue, and asks in a short, petrified tone:

“What? What’s wrong with the art center?”

“I… I don’t know how to explain it let alone _believe it_ , but it’s kinda…” The student is dazed, clearly lost and confused and scared but Muck has no _time_ for this, tapping his foot until the student gives him what he needs, “It’s really hot inside but there’s no fire? And… and it’s… some people say it’s floating- hey, where are you two going?! It seemed like it was getting worse, I don’t think you should go out there!” Muck is fleeing down the steps three at a time, Malarkey struggling to keep up without falling and breaking every bone in his body.

“ _Fucking_ _crapsticks on a shitpile_ , the circuits!”

“ _What_ circuits, Muck?! What’s going on!”

Pushing outside, they’re greeted with a terror-inspiring, sunset coloured glow, a blast of heat, and the odd student racing around preaching doomsday or taking pictures on their phones. Muck doesn’t even give himself time to explain, let alone take a breath, before he’s rocketing across the grasses faster than Malarkey’s seen him move. He’s heading for the arts center that is visible between two blocks of student living apartments and the narrow corridor formed between the Law and the Education buildings.

“Why is the.” Malarkey stops, sighs, then sprints faster than he has ever sprinted before, “ _Muck_! Why is the art’s center _glowing red and floating about a meter higher-_ ”

“The Kalotine circuits have fucking _gone off,_ that’s why!! _Shit_ , the whole thing’s gonna blow!” He can only just make out Muck’s scream in the distance, “I _knew_ the substitute I used for an ignition stabilizer would fuck everything up, I just _knew it_ , but _oh-ho, no_ , I just _had_ to get to that fucking sleepover in time, didn’t I?!”

“Are you trying to pin this on me-” Malarkey is catching up, the two of them racing by the windows open to mock-trials, hearing arguments cease and mutterings begin, joining the blood pounding in his head and the whirr of panic, the positively distressed yelp:

“ _Of course I’m trying to fucking pin this on you, who do you think I am_!”

They’re both in their pajamas, so they look utterly ridiculous, and their clothing does nothing to shelter them from the radiation of burning heat, stifling and humid the closer they get to the building. _Fuck, if I die in here I’m gonna kill him_ , Malarkey thinks as he literally has to pull himself up and onto the floor of the arts center with his arms, his legs unable to bridge the gaping, black crevasse that has appeared at the entrance. The rocks and broken shards of brick are caught between in some kind of gravity-less force, suspending them in a reddish haze amid the stark twilight of the _void_ that has occurred there. Following his best friend through the maze of classrooms and supply rooms, they worm their way closer to the source- temperatures rising rapidly, and Malarkey feels something saturating his skin which he really hopes is the same substance as the sweat dripping down the back of his night shirt. It definitely _isn’t_ , but it’s good to hope, especially now that Muck is using a crowbar to lift one of the bricks in the very back storeroom, punching in the code- Malarkey’s birthday date in eight digits, offset one figure down, Muck thinks Malarkey hasn’t guessed it but he has –and flinging himself against the wall. Malarkey follows suit, having learnt his lesson numerous times that it’s impossible, trying to stand like a normal person as the floor falls away and shifts and gives way to a rusty spiral staircase. Instead of the usual pitch-black that greets them, there’s a radioactive red pulsation accompanied by a gushing heat wave. Muck foregoes the stairs and grabs the railing outside, gliding himself down in the gap between the stairs and the concrete cylinder that encases them. Malarkey is sure he’ll get stuck in the gap, so he dizzies himself with the speed in which he descends, rattling the spiral staircase and coming out at the bottom to greet the heat full on; Muck is already racing around the huge underground chamber, screaming at his equipment and jumping though a few small fires to reach his most cherished work. Unsurprisingly, it’s the source of all this madness and panic. At the very back of the rectangular cellar, suspended halfway to the curved roof which is roughly two stories high, sits a highlighter yellow sphere with two fins on either side, a smaller one on top, and three stumps for legs on the underside. It is poised in a large metal frame, creaking under a strain Malarkey knows _isn’t_ supposed to be there. Muck had designed it perfectly to hold up his ship, so something is wrong with it… if the fucking radioactivity, Muck’s garbling fear, and everything being bathed in blood-red wasn’t enough.

“What do you need me to do?!”

“Just- just _sit_ there, don’t touch anything!” The hems of his pants are sizzling and singed, but quickly go out with the flurrying movement of his legs as he rips his way through several motherboards and important-looking pieces of machinery, turning dials and switching switches, clicking buttons that cause lights to blink to life and klaxons to drone readily.

“Muck, I can help, let me help!”

“I-” He doesn’t stop moving, not for a microsecond, but the contemplation is heavy in his expression. A shower of sparks arc across the hall as part of the ship’s scaffolding grates and collapses, the sparks landing on a panel made out of sliders and sink taps. Muck screeches, running at the aflame and merrily crackling surface with a fire extinguisher. As soon as he turns his back on the large metal contraption he was hitting and swearing at, it buzzes and sputters with liveliness, a bolt or two popping off at the overlapping seams, the split erupting with a noxious, purple steam. “The _vents_ , turn on the air vents!” Malarkey dashes over to the wall closest to the stairs, narrowly dodging the sizzling pots of chemicals, and hits one of the many buttons for lights, lockdowns, and other such things. Ventilation kicks in, lifting the smoggy purple in a violent vortex to the ceiling fans, along with the smoke from various flames. Muck is back over at the seeping box, working to shut it down.

“Muck!”

“What?!”

“Want can I do!”

Muck takes a deep breath, aiming his swing of a wrench at a keyhole, busting the casing around it and ripping it out. Fiddling with the leads, cords, and cables, he shouts:

“The cube control station over there: turn every third switch to green and every fourth to pink and when they overlap you go to green because time overrides space!! The ones that are red- keep flicking them on and off until they go blue, don’t leave them _aqua_ , there is a difference and it’s important- trust me, they _will_ change, you just have to get the timing right. The dial on _there_ , see it, right down the left corner, needs to get out of the red zone- once it is, turn every single switch to yellow except the one that says ‘quantum brake’- it’ll be somewhere in the second sector of- oh! And also the silver lever, that needs to be vertical but that will _not_ release until half the board is yellow, and _only_ half, if you do one over or under, the lever won’t turn, and you can’t go back once you flip a switch because half the system will go into melt down due to reversal and I don’t think I’ll be able to stop it from imploding when it’s over thirty percent let alone fifty! Once you’ve done that, go to the other side of the panel and hit the orange button- there are two, and it’s _probably the one on the right_ , which ever one is closer to the secondary control keys, It’ll shut down the whole system but you need to be careful! Once the lever is pulled, the fields around the black hole matter-manipulator will turn off, so the entire thing will go critical!! You need to be fast, because when it gets pulled, a mini wormhole will erupt and we’ll be pulled the fuck in if you’re not fast enough! Got it?!”

“Got it!!” Heading for the steel-grey cube, three walls about 5 inches thick covered in hundreds of switches with abbreviations and initials, Malarkey repeats the instructions over and over. _Every third one yellow- no, green, and fourths are pink, red- aha, there are like, thirty, that’s great- keep flicking until it’s blue- damnit, I missed blue- damn! Again! Fucking- okay, one down, shit, this isn’t going to work-_ “The red ones take too long!”

“Okay- okay, okay, okay,” Muck goes off in a ramble to himself, moving on from the silenced box to a futuristic circular table obscured by wheeling balls embedded in the frame, “Okay, pink! Pink will have to do, so fucking help us!” Malarkey complies, flicking the blue to pink- whatever the fuck that means for them –and trying to recall what came next. _Pink switches, red… red- oh, the dial!_ Checking the dial, he watches as the needle rolls over from the black quadrant to the red.

“Come on, _come on_!” Behind him, Muck dives over the sphere-covered bench to control the scaffolding suspension, lowering his ship onto its feet and releasing it. He looks over to Malarkey, holding a thumb up above his head, eyes glinting with wetness thanks to the immensity of the room’s climate. Malarkey nods, and Muck beams at him, teeth shimmering like rubies.

All of the switches flick to white as soon as the dial goes from the red zone to the orange, and Malarkey starts flipping them, working his way across as fast as he can until he’s turned half the cube over to yellow. “Lever… ha!” The lever is at the top of the central board and he jumps, grabbing it and pulling down, turning it to face the floor. As soon as it locks in to place, he continues to flick switch upon switch, Muck dashing past shouting “no, no, _no_ , the _Harmonizer, I forgot the Harmonizer, the Harmoniz-_ ”, knocked into silence when an explosion rocks the subterranean room.

“ _Muck_!?” Malarkey finishes off the last row of switches, leaving the cube and racing in the direction he’d seen Muck go- through the smoldering of what he guesses _was_ the Harmonizer, rapidly sucked away by ventilation fans, Muck’s body lays, stroked in ash, his hair wind-blown away from his face. “ _Muck_!” Scrabbling across sheets of metal, Malarkey tries to reach his friend. Another crashing boom from the other end of the hall vibrates the ground beneath him like an earthquake, splits peppering the cement flooring, “Orange button, orange button!” He backtracks, slipping on the charcoaled bits of old experiments and panes of corrugated iron, finding his way to the back of the cube: amidst a colourful variety of controls sit two orange buttons, just like Muck had said. They’re identical- the entire layout is, but one is supposedly ‘secondary’- without having to think, Malarkey slams his palm down on the left side of the panel, the orange button’s clunking puts an end to the red haze, the slithering sensation over his skin, the sucking sound of the air vents, the emergency lights, and every other piece of equipment, requiring electricity to power or not.

“Shit, that _sucked_.”

“Muck!” Malarkey calls, worry subsiding at the sound of his friend’s voice. He doesn’t dare to make his way to Muck blindly, for fear of injuring himself or Muck in the rubble and dust.

“Modified EMP pulse, everything’s offline.”

Under the beam of the torch from Malarkey’s phone, he can see Muck is running his fingers through his seared hair, eyes wide and sad, devastated by the destruction around him. Laying face-up in the epicenter of a blast, he tilts and turns his head, not having the drive to get up and properly gauge the damage. Instead, he remains on the fissured ground, waiting for the back-up lights to come on; they work on a separate system, so it often takes at least a minute for them to turn. “I knew the pink was a bad idea!”

“Well… the ship is still there, at least-” Malarkey turns the phone to where the yellow ship sits at the distant end of the hall, humming faintly. He’s shocked to see sky-blue light filtering from the round-edged patterns carved into the lower hemisphere of the time machine, and even more shocked when he notices that Muck is oblivious to his prized invention’s self-sustainability.

“And I was so close, Larkey! _So_ so so _close_! The equation was only- I swear, the fraction point _must’ve_ made that much of a difference, I didn’t think… I should’ve known better. I should’ve _learnt_ , after last time.”

“It’s- _look_ , Muck. Look at Motsie.” Muck raises his head, craning his neck to see: his time machine is glowing with a blue light, not emitting the chunky clanking sounds he’d gotten after the last test, unplugging it and seeing how she ran without a constant stream of liquid nitrogen and gamma-ray photons.

“… On.”

“Yes, on. _Working_. Alive, whatever the fuck you did to her is clearly working, so-”

“How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“The orange button, how’d you know it was the left?” Malarkey knows his answer instantly: _‘Because you hate it when I stand on your right, you can’t see my scar, and you hate not having your dominant hand free when your hand holds mine, so I assumed that you’d design everything with me in mind and set it up so that I was on your left but, of course, you’d never let me have primary control over your stuff, so it was the secondary controls and that’s how I knew’_ …

“Lucky guess, I guess.” Muck sighs, lifting his arms and waggling them about. Malarkey goes over, hoisting the man to his feet. Muck’s bounding, very much like an excited puppy, though the ruins of his lab towards the time machine.

“She can run on her own. I’m still not sure about the circuits, though. I might do some more tests, once I fucking rebuild everything…” He pauses, petting the gossamer surface of the ship, Malarkey kicking at the remnants of the machine that nearly killed his best friend.

“Sorry about your lab, Mucky.” He murmurs, genuinely, despite kicking childishly at a non-sentient object in the hopes that it’ll serve as a warning for other equipment to come.

“It’s okay. It’ll only take me a few days to redo- not much actually exploded beyond repair, which is surprising.” He slaps the ship’s side one last time before resuming his typical state of motion; bustling around, running here and there, a human hummingbird flitting from one technological flower to the next, “ _Honestly_ , I thought this was the end of Swans. If that core went off, I predict… about _six_ kilometers in diameter? Radius? Either way, the campus would’ve been dead and gone.”

“ _Dude_.”

“I know, I know, but it’s all under control now.” Muck dismisses their deaths and the deaths of thousands of students, teachers, and innocent bystanders, simply because he’s _clever_.

“ _Why_ …”

“I’m sure I have a better solution, though, I mean- I can’t _not_ use that kind of energy because there really isn’t anything powerful enough, but through re-routing the flux of-”

“…Am I _friends_ with you?” Rubbing at his pounding temples, the true weight and stress of what they’d just been through and prevented catching up to him, Malarkey heads for the stairs, knowing Muck’ll be isolated down here for ages with this new discovery. He really doesn’t have time between the West Side Story set and planning his art installations for the presentation to attend and record Muck’s lectures… but lord knows he’ll be there in the back of a classroom filled with techies and the next Steve Jobs, sketching stupid shit, Voice Memo app open on Muck’s phone. “Why, Muck, just. _Why_?” He doesn’t mean it, never does, but it’s fun to see what Muck comes up with. And by fun, he means heart-stabbing and gut-wrenching… there’s never a difference between pining and fun when it comes to Muck Skip. They’re one in the same. What can he say- Muck just devastates him in the best way possible.

“The question you should be asking yourself isn’t _why_ you’re my friend, but _why_ do you continue to let me _do this_ , hm?”

Malarkey files it under ‘future analysis’.

“I take it you’re not coming to rehearsal this arvo?”

“For the next few days I’ll be down here.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” Muck’s already half-inside the machine which was spilling poisonous fumes not three minutes ago, only his legs visible. Malarkey fears for the other man’s life; when does he not?

“Bring cheese! Bacon, too! We can bake it in the reactor vessel- oh, and lemonade. Couple of triple A batteries. And a new Phillips-head… Three millimeters. Please.”

“Kay.”

“The red stuff!”

“Creaming soda?”

“That’s the one!!”

 

***

 

“Hey Gene.” Babe calls, not having to look up to know it’s her when the door slides open, the click of heels and scrape of a cardboard cup holder saying it all.

“Sup.” Taking her usual place in the chair, Babe opting to sit on the floor for when she inevitably comes along, she toes her shoes off and kicks her feet up on the power boards. “So, still going with the composition?” Her dress falls back a little- not that there was much of it to start with –and, can you blame Babe for staring, because he’d been shut away and too busy and so damn fucking _horny_ for weeks now, this music project is consuming his life. Obviously, Gene can. Gene can blame him to the pits of the underworld. “ _Oi_. Don’t gawk at what you can’t afford, mister,” She teases, voice light and airy, stretching her waxed, muscular legs, “You’ve got shit to do, clearly.”

“Then _s_ top fuckin’ di _st_ racting me wi _th_ your _s_ tupid dumbne _ss_ and lay down a beat for tho _s_ e idiot _s_.” Babe grumps, his words fond as he practically pulls his own head down to his computer screen and away from Gene; she obliges, plugging her phone in to the sound system and playing a chill remix of some random Coucheron tune. “I’m ju _s_ t putting toge _th_ er _th_ e audio file _s_ from _th_ e recording.”

“It’s almost done, then?”

“Yeah, but. God-damned _s_ trings, _a certain first violin_ fudged up on _th_ e four _th_ ostinato block _s_ o I’m trying to pitch bend _th_ e freaking _cabbage_ _but_. I ju _s_ t _had_ to make _th_ e _s_ ection _s_ o den _s_ e, didn’t I?”

“It’ll turn out brilliant, Babe.”

“I get my bra _c_ es off in two day _s_ , so _th_ at’ _s_ _s_ omething to look forward to, at lea _s_ t.”

“I know- so exciting. You’ll be able to brush your teeth properly.”

“Fir _st_ time in four year _s_.” Babe smirks, “I’ll al _s_ o be free of thi _s_ dang li _s_ p.”

“But I love your lisp.”

“Really?”

“It’s cute.”

“ _Really_?!”

“It’s _very_ cute.”

“No one’ _s_ ever told me _th_ at.”

“Oh, darling.”

Gene does this all the time: going into the tech booth to chill with Babe and a milkshake, maybe even screw around with the lights, blast a couple songs. She was promised a date to one of those old-timey milk bars, but Babe was too busy with his music project and Gene is okay with that. Someday it’ll happen, he promises. Of the two takeaway milkshakes, in their generic tropical-themed paper cups that go soggy if left too long- they learnt the hard way, _don’t_ ask -she sets one on the left side of Babe’s laptop, chucking her own empty one in the bin. “Did you call Luz a cabbage?”

“ _Perchance_.”

“You’re amazing.”

Babe smiles up at her, blatantly affectionate. Gene blushes.

“What did I do to de _s_ erve you?”

It’s all a blur of sugar lips and cold hands- they end up making out on the control panels, making all the lights go crazy on stage, blissfully unaware until Kitty screams:

“Take it off the switchboard, god damn it, some us are trying to _work_ down here!!”

Babe pulls off for a second, fumbling to push the correct button for the intercom, shutting off Gene’s music in the process:

“Well _soo-orry_ , I- mhfhfhf-” Gene seizes Babe for another kiss, pulling him off the power board and out of sight of the people down on the ground level.

 

The day’s rehearsal comes to an end: Bull droning about dress rehearsals and his inconveniently poorly tended relationship with the belittling Head of Fashion. Sink, Webster’s pretty sure the guy’s name is. He forgets it pretty quickly when his IPod is pegged at him, headphones streaming behind it like a banner. Who the _fuck_ did he give his _precious_ to? And why did they just-

“I fini _sh_ ed _th_ at ma _sh_ up for you, Webber man!” _Oh…_ Babe yells at him from across the room, rosy in the cheeks and being pulled relentlessly by Gene towards the exit- _good on you_ , Webster thinks, somewhat resentfully due to how below zero he’s getting at the moment. Popping the earphones in, he unlocks it and goes to the music library, finding the song he’d asked for under the title _Say Hello by Kicking and Screaming; I’m Shameless, Brooklyn_.

“The title’s perfect, man!” He shouts as he presses play, turning up the intro.

“I _th_ ought…” Babe glances lengthily at Liebgott- dicking around with Muck and Malarkey –before he continues, “It’ _s_ appropriate for, y’know. _Th_ e intention you told me.”

_“Hips sway and lips lie, like clockwork he’s in control…”_

Webster starts cackling, ignoring Babe’s comment with a minute eye roll.

“Oh fuck, _Winters_ \- you got Winters to do it?!”

“You bet! He ba _s_ ically _begged_ me to let him _s_ ing it.” With that, plus a waggle of his fingers, Babe leaves with Gene’s arm wrapped around his lower back.

_“Of all the right guys and I’m still waiting_

_Like a weightless currency, or- words don’t mean shit to me_

_I’m always cashing in!”_

The music jerks and changes, tempo and tonality remaining through the transition- at the first beat of the new verse, Webster springs in to action, pitching himself around at random to find sequences, fitting movements with the lyrics, the beat, the outraging, hip-swinging feel that comes with pop-punk.

_“Say hello to all my little nightmares- they're right here, I know them well_

_History repeats itself in phrases; scribbled in dark places, like notches on a belt- they're chasing after you, bro_

_But I'm chasing after rock and roll… kicking and screaming.”_

Lipton, Kitty, and even Muck and Malarkey- usually the last to go -leave with shouted ‘goodbye’s ignored by Web, too engrossed in the pick-up of the chorus.

_“I've been waiting for you to call! And dress me up- my sucker love- drag me 'round…_

_Kicking and screaming_

_And I've been waiting for you to call! And dress me up- my sucker love- drag me 'round…_

_Kicking and screaming [screaming-]”_

“Oh, hell no! That’s an awesome trans-” Webster cuts himself off as the mix goes directly in to the next song, dancing and showing off as much as he can, as much as the song demands him to with the upbeat punch, the step-sequence chord progression:

_“Hello Brooklyn! Hey LA! Take the streets all night ‘cuz we sleep all day”_

He’s so fucking glad Lip recommended this song; it is absolutely _perfect_ for dancing his ass off to.

_“When the world comes crashing down, who’s ready to party?!_

_Hello Brooklyn! Hey LA! Coast to coast I’ll take you down in flames!_

_Let the good times roll- we can let it go, everybody knows there’s a party at the end of the-! Oh-_

_Say goodbye to all the pretty face; dark places- I know too well_

_Fantasy competes to be my only; I'm fucking lonely, like bottles on the shelf- there's one more chasing for you_

_I'm chasing after rock and roll… kicking and- and- and-”_

It reverberates out, softens, piano and the barest bit of orchestra, a high-pitched vocal line. Winters’ falsetto is pretty damn amazing, driving Web to sway around, loose and slow and calmed. Not for the first time, it crosses his mind that: _this bit would be too perfect for a partner dance, twisting arms, mirroring, maybe a lift-_

_“Tonight I’m finding a way to make the things that you say just a little less obvious, I confess…”_

With the note hanging in the air, Webster pauses in a backbend, fingers grazing the floor; it continues, now solo baritone voice and single acoustic chords and octaves low on piano, a high fifth repeated up high.

_“This city- so pretty, under moonlit skies we'll be hanging like a cigarette_

_So stunning- start running, tonight's like a knife, and he’ll cut me with his kiss-”_

Slowly, the piano forms a beat, guitar growing more driving, a kick drum fading in through the left ear and shifting the to right as it gets louder. Web moves with it, trailing his pointed feet but moving faster as the rhythm increases.

_“Tonight I’m dressed up in gold- you’ve got me fucked up and sold-_

_You talk like you’re famous- you’re shameless!”_

A great guitar scream lifts his chest, drawing him forward to the front of the stage, the song continuing but still giving the impression of a struggle, being held back, waiting. The music warps and curves, cyclic yet propelling itself with every line.

_“This city- is your city; heels on the sidewalk begging for a backbeat_

_Don't worry- I fight dirty; tonight's like a right hook knock you off your feet_

_I'll be yours, truly unbelievable, can't miss this chance to take you-_

_Out, here's your invitation-_

_Say hello to all my little nightmares... they're right here, I know them well-_

_Tonight I'm finding a way to make the things that you say just a little less obvious, I confess, oh!_

_Tonight I'm dressed up in gold, you've got me fucked up and sold!_

_You talk like you're famous! You're shameless- shameless- shame-”_

The instruments surge, beat pounding, Web fantasizes about how great it’d look with strobe lights as the music distorts, switching ear every time until:

_“Hello Brooklyn, Hey LA-”_

Webster bounds around, performing what his teachers call his trademark moves; difficult, technically, but done with ease by years of leaping across his furniture to the newest Gaga hits, of staying back afterschool to use the empty studio- as shitty as it was, it became a second home for teenage Web –and of the intense university regime, dance becoming his life and love and everything he’s known for. The song, the moment, the music, brings it all out of him; as does the rush of performing, every time, without fail and _yeah_ , this is why he knows he’s a great fucking dancer. It’s what he was _made_ to do, so badly that it fills up every inch of his body, firing each nerve, pushing him to a textbook, flawless _overdrive_.

_“Take the streets all night 'cause we sleep all day_

_When the world comes crashing down who's ready to party- shameless, you’re shameless, kicking and screaming-_

_Hello Brooklyn! Hey LA! Coast to coast, I’ll take you down in flames-_

_Let the good times roll, we can let it go!_

_Everybody knows there’s a party at the-_

_Everybody knows there’s a end of the world!”_

Something about his dance doesn’t feel _right_ … it was awesome, don’t get him wrong, there was a missing element, though. Nevertheless, the music is epic. He has _got_ to remember to thank Babe later for the remix. He lands the last jump with a stagger forward, sliding on his knees and shins to the edge of the stage, polished timber burning his bared skin. He barely feels that, the blisters below his kneecaps and the raw skin in the curve of his ankles, for he’s already on his feet and replaying the song. However this time, vaguely copying the makeshift routine he’d just executed, he leaves space for a second person, and… fuck. He really needs a dance partner.

After the final chorus of Hello Brooklyn fades, he takes his earphones out, only to hear:

“That was half a fucking dance, idiot.” A brief pause, then, “Who the fuck would _ever_ want to dance with you?” It’s the sharp, clipped, humored declaration of Joseph Liebgott.

Web hungers to scream ‘you did!’ but chomps it back, turning up Paper Planes and taking a break while Liebgott leaves, frustrated without an answer. He’s hardly panting but sweating like crazy, thanks to his fucking dumb physiology, and gulps down water, purposely spilling it onto his shirt to wet down the sweat in the hopes it’ll help him cool down. Maya gets a minute in to her timeless rap about robbing and stealing before Web’s flaring up from angsting, overanalyzing a certain snarky theater dork’s words, as usual, and flicks through shuffle impatiently until:

_“She got a body like an hour glass- but I can give it to you all the time… She got a booty like a Cadillac…”_

Heavy brass, a quick clapping beat, sharp stabs of rhythm making a pulse, a pattern simple for Web to follow, losing himself all too quickly in the feature of the three queens, the three women with voices that should- _do_ –belong to gods: Ariana Grande, Jessie J, and Nicky Minaj. Containing the perfect amount of sass, anger, and fight, he unfastens himself into their voices, their agitated backing track. He doesn’t wish Lieb was there to see, does _not_ dance as though he was, because he’s _not_. Webster has never felt so positively _negative_ about anything, _anyone_ , in his entire life; it makes him work, _dance_ , that much harsher.

But he is:

Lieb is lingering in the back curtains, having forgotten his phone- his _life_ –and is enjoying the show from a _purely_ _aesthetic_ point of view, ignoring the core _hatred_ towards Web to focus on the way his body moves, the control he has, the connection with his music to which his body shadows. _No_ , Liebgott considers, _shadowing isn’t the right way to put it- he leads it_. As cheap as it sounds, Webster _is_ the music: he becomes it, becomes every beat, every note, every trill and lyric and swing. He’s entranced, long after Webster packs up and saunters away, visibly tranquil.

 

***

 

“We’re all working on the production and it’s super stressful but I…” Winters starts, busting into Webster’s room and clambering over him, resting face-down at his side. His walk is off- laced with heaviness, a weary tread Webster has never seen on him before.

“Wints?” Webster prompts, unsure. He… to be direct, Webster feels like he’s been a shit friend. Winters has become withdrawn and quiet and barely socializes with Harry, Gene, Babe, and occasionally Webster. Which, okay, he’ll admit, that is what he normally does: _not_ _interacting_ with people. However, the man is fairly open and lively when he interacts with his friends, so for him to be ghostlike even around _them_ is unusual.

“He brought this girl to the kennel a few weeks ago and I haven’t been back since running out when he saw me and came over to introduce her and it’s making me sad because I really _liked_ \- and… and I haven’t seen the dogs in ages, and that’s what’s making me sad.”

 _Of course_ , Webster metaphorically smacks himself in the forehead; _it’s about the pet store. I haven’t heard about his whiskey-loving madman since… well, five weeks ago. Shit. Winters needs the guy like the guy needs his whisky, by the sounds of it._

“Would it help if I come with you and pose as your boyfriend or something?” Webster asks, unhelpfully, scowling at himself when Winters flinches at the hand Web rubs his back with. He’s fucked up. He has fucked up, big time. Winters may not be annoyed with him for long, but this unfixed disruption to the animal pound- being such an integral part of Winter’s life –will be a lot harder to set right. His two priorities in life are dancing and Winters, and now one of them is falling apart- Lieb is quickly tearing part the second half, but that’s not as important right now.

“No.” Winters whines childishly, relaxing in to Webster’s rubbing. “No, I don’t think that’ll help, Web.”

“Would it help if you go down during the day to see the animals?”

“It’s… It’s just not the same.” Winters mumbles into his pillow, melancholy and innocent.

“Then it’s not the dogs you’re missing, bud.” Mutters Webster, patting the ginger in a consoling manner on the head before leaving his bedside in search of Harry and comfort food. They’ll set this right. He’s determined to get the lightness back in Winter’s step, dogs and mystery-man to roll around with or not.

 

***

 

So Kitty was joking when she told Spiers to come along to rehearsals. Absolutely one hundred percent _kidding_ , _non_ -serious, actually kinda hoping the invitation coerced him into _remaining_ _indoors_.

Stalking in like the _fucking grim reaper_ \- glooming shades at his shoulders and all -the man himself enters the theater behind a hyper Muck-Malarkey duo, slipping though the fast-closing door in the nick of time.

“I’m _here_. Make me happy.” He demands, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth, tapping the cigarette ash into a cup holder built into the seats.

“Make yourself happy, we’ve got more than enough means here…” She trails off, watching a bumbling man approach them, yelping back over his shoulder at a bunch of kids holding musical instruments who call profanities and carol an unfamiliar song that seems to distract the red-headed man incredibly. “Oh, Lip, it’s _you_ \- holy sweet _fuck_ _above_ , what happened to your _hair_ …”

Lipton falls in Spiers’ path, literally _falls_ and faceplants about two feet away from Spiers’ own socked feet, spilling a paper cup full of coffee. He’s got fire-engine red hair, not _ginger red_ , but bright, neon fucking _crimson_ [the band kids played a prank on him two days ago, naming him ‘Clifford the Big Red Dog’ and singing _“Clifford’s so much fun, he’s a friend to us all!!”_ whenever they pass him and frankly, Lipton’s ready to tear his damned red hair _out_ if he has to hear the start up of that fucking theme song ever again in his life, the _“Clifford needed Emily, so she chose him for her own, and her love made Clifford grow so big…”_ and all the colourful varieties of innuendoes that follow].

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry! Kits, I had your- your coffee but now it’s, well, it’s floor caffeine, but oh well, _nothing to be done_ , hah, I…”

Spiers may kinda die a little inside as the man scrabbles to his feet, wide brown eyes apologetic yet somehow sparkling with happiness despite ruining a perfectly good cup of coffee and falling flat on the floor in front of a hall-full of people. Spiers is in awe. He’s so quick to crush his cigarette under the sole of his shoe when Lipton asks him that he almost falls on his face as well. Kitty snorts, sending Lip on his way as Spiers weakly punches at her hand.

“Kit, Kit, Kit, Kit-”

“Jesus, _that_ got you going, didn’t it.”

“Kit, Kit, Kit- my chest hurts, what is this.” He gasps, indignant, juddering, turning to Kitty with big eyes shining in a way Kitty hasn’t seen for ages, “ _Witchcraft_. Witchcraft, I tell you, _witchcraft_!”

“You’re heart is _beating_ , Ronald! Surprised you still fucking _have_ one... And that it _works_.” She jabs her finger at his pulse point under his jawbone, “And it’s rather fucking fast, too.”

“Gah, fuck, I don’t want it, take it from me.”

“That means the love is _real_ , Spiers.” Kitty is far beyond excited by now, seconds from spontaneous combustion as Spiers- the previously dormant crust of a guy –literally _buzzes_ back to life before her very eyes. He starts to bounce on the balls of his feet, hands jittery and unsure where to stay, shoulders pulled back and somewhat resembling good posture. Most of all: his eyes, opened fully and engaged and moving, engrossed once more with the movements of the world around him instead of vacantly dawdling apparitions, indolently watching a star move, some hundreds of millions of light-years away.

“Fuck off, you’re too short to be Thranduil.” He grunts, then a _smile_ , a fucking _smile_ comes along, breaking the thin hard line of his lips, taking away any remainders of the dangerous smirks she’d seen, the falsities and artificial grins; anything to get his friends to leave him on his own. It’s a genuine eye-wrinkler. Kitty is so many levels above delighted, it’s seriously concerning.

“Ah, _there_ he is!” She grabs him and picks him up with a disturbing amount of ease, whirling in a circle. “He is awakened!”

“Who’s up?!” Malarkey swings in on a rope, sliding across the stage on a trolley, nearly riding it over the lip of the stage when he spots Spiers, “ _Fuckballs! Spiers!!! You-_ ” He gallops over, thumping onto Spiers, latching like an oyster, sending all three of them tumbling to the ground, _“You’re an asshole!”_

“Lark, are you okay?!” Muck shouts from wherever the hell he’s gotten to now- it sounds like the ceiling, but no one’s too sure.

“Spiers! Fuckin’ _Spiers!_ ”

“Okay, okay,” The man in shout-question laughs, “Get off me, losers.”

“What’s wrong with ‘im?!” The tinny yelping of Muck reverbs from an air vent hatch a few feet over their heads.

“He’s laughing!” Malarkey cackles as Spiers gets up, brushing the hands of Kitty and Malarkey off, “And he called me a _loser!_ I could _cry!_ ” He jumps at Spiers’ feet, making to follow Ron. Kitty is up on her feet, smiling at Ron but making no attempt to stop him, placing her faith in Malarkey’s more-than-capable hands.

“ _Ronnie_!” Sounds Muck’s screechy expression of happiness, backed up by knuckles slamming metal. _He’s probably stuck somewhere, I should go find him_ , Malarkey thinks. Spiers, on the other hand, hopes the crazy scientist is trapped so he doesn’t get tackled again.

“Fuck you all, I’m going back home.”

“Oi Kits!” Lipton shouts at that exact moment- Spiers with his back turned, intending towards the door with Malarkey hanging off his leg, “Get here and help us practice, we need someone who knows all the songs!” He pauses, flushes, keeping his cool because he’s _punk-rock as fuck_ when he says, “Your friend can stay around too, if you’d like…?”

“Yeah, sure, gimmie a sec!” Kitty hollers back, turning on Spiers like a changing tide, “ _You_.” She growls, “Get your ass on the stage and be my Maria.”

“But you’re _Riff-_ ”

“Don’t care!!” With finality, she grabs his hand and begins to haul him- Malarkey attached -to the stage, right past the instrument pit. He humbly offers the redhead- _Lipton_ , right –a wave; meek, _shy_ , he’s putting it down to being in the presence of _others_. Thankfully, Lipton waves back, accidentally punching the boy next to him in the face. A conductor, by the look of it, who’s ogling Gene too much to care.

Spiers doesn’t care all that much either, right now, so he laughs alongside the orchestra at the pair of them, kicking Malark off of him and dashing in the lead, pulling a giggling Kitty up the stairs to stage.

 

***

 

**0255: Fuck I’m tired, let me sleep**

_0255: I demand more- what about a star trek crossover?_

**0255: Jesus, you can’t just say something like that to a man!**

_0255: come oooooooonnnn_

**0255: No, I’m sleeping**

_0256: saaattiiisssfffyyyy meeeeeee_

**0256: Nope. Zzzzzzzz**

_0256: (_ _ง'̀-'́)_ _ง_

**0256: Look, come on, I had a long day. This asshole was screaming at me and I was screaming at him and I wanted to punch him and also fuck him but, like…**

_0256: (_ _ง'̀-'́)_ _ง_

**0257: Are we really doing this?**

_0257: (_ _ง'̀-'́)_ _ง_

 **0257: Sigh. (** **ง'̀-'́)** **ง**

_0257: good. now that that’s settled, star trek. how about it?_

**0257: Please let me go**

_0258: never. I love you. youre stuck with me_

**0258: One hour, come on.**

_0258: but then i'll fall asleeeeeppppppppp =[[[[[[[_

**0258: Come on, bro**

_0258: ======[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[_

**0258: Please? I’ll text you tomorrow, I swear. First thing.**

_0258: fiiiiiiiiiine_

**0258: I love youuuuuu**

_0259: love you tooooooo <3<3<3_

**0259: <3<3<3<3<3<3<3**

**0259: Please get some sleep too**

_0259: be easier if you were by my side_

**0259: Argh don’t tempt me like that, you shit**

_0259: =D_

_0259: love u, gnightttt_

**0259: Love you too, so much <3 night**

So sue him, it’s 3 am and he’s sulking, blasting Crying Lightning by Arctic Monkeys. He loves shoegazing music about as much as he loves his text-boyfriend, but neither as much as he loves Webster.

“Wow. _Wow_.”

 _Okay_ , that was _stupid,_ what a stupid thing to think. He doesn’t _love_ Webster, doesn’t even fucking _like_ the guy- he _hates_ Webster. And Webster hates _him_ , so it all works out; everything is balanced out and _fine_.

Then… why does he feel like nothing is okay?

“Because nothing is fucking okay, this asshole walks around like he _owns everything_. Like he fucking owns _me_. He is _not_ better than me, and I will- I’ll fucking show him. He’ll be the fucking first to _break_ , I swear to god, he just- he makes me want to rip my fucking _eyes_ out, he’s _so annoying-_ ”

Obviously, that’s the moment Kitty comes in to his room and shouts: “It’s three in the _fucking morning_ , Webster is blasting an epic mash up in the dance studio and the entire quad can hear it and he left the space for you in his dance routine if you want it. Oh, the other half of his heart is also up for grabs, should you want _that_ , but you know, you’ve already go it, so it’s no biggie. Why am I even talking anymore, you are literally a brick wall!!”

 

***

 

The next practice, Lieb is listening to his iPod on shuffle, sitting on the edge of the stage, everyone else moving around him out of time to the beats, the powerful vocals of Kelly Clarkson. The din of pre-practice shenanigans is easily muted by _“You, where the hell did you come from…”_ , Lieb’s heavy heart, and the door opening and closing with slams and creaks.

Liebgott sees Webster come in, take one look at him, and roll his eyes when the dark-haired man glares as a reflex. Not for the first time, something inside Lieb goes _fuck it_ : he springs from the stage, breaking out into a very _purposely_ shit, basic dance along to _“Anticipating what’s to come, like a finger on a loaded gu-u-un…”_

Web sneers, watching and unable to _not_ join in when Lieb starts trying- failing so badly –at imitating those jump-spins he’s seen Webster do so often. He’s honestly just making sure Lieb doesn’t end up breaking an ankle this close to opening night, it’s not at all because of Lieb’s infectious grin, his rapidly spinning body which Web joins on to seamlessly, not interrupting the hyper whirlwind, linking their hands and adding his weight to it to turn them faster and faster- _“This is my heartbeat song and I'm gonna play it- turned it on but I know you can take it up, up, up, up all night long-”_

“Slow down, you maniac!” Liebgott laughs, smile coming a little too close to Web’s as he leans in in an attempt to slow them- of course, if Lieb knew anything about physics, he’d realise that’d only increase their velocity. “You’re gonna kill us!”

 _“If I'd have known where I'd be now,”_ Webster sings, stunning Liebgott. He mouths ‘how do you…?’ and Webster shouts “Your music is up very loud!” before continuing on the pre-chorus, _“Your hands on my hips-”_ and he can’t tell whether they've stopped spinning or not, for Lieb’s sing-shouting with minty breath “ _and my kiss on your lips,”_ they sing together: _“Oh, I could do this- for a lifetime!”_ The chorus hits, Webster pulls Liebgott into a familiar routine, the rest of the cast watching on like hawks as the pair dance and sing their way around the stage for the rest of the chorus. In the midst of the madness, Lieb’s earphones fall out, his IPod skittering across the wooden floor; they continue to chant, _“My heartbeat song and I’m gonna play it-”_ loudly, if not _louder_ than when Lieb had his ears bursting with the crooning of Kelly. Now it’s just Webster and Lieb’s voices, raspy and low versus smooth and higher, belting dense harmonies at midrange with squeaks, growls, perfect slides and ornamentations.

Bull, who is right up the back, slow clapping like there’s no fucking tomorrow, hoots “Bernardo and Tony are supposed to hate one another, the _fuck_ is this?!” and Lieb drops Web like a bowling ball, Web yelping in pain as his head and back bangs onto the stage.

Now Bull feels like an asshole… Not for the first time. Webster is sore, baffled, and _fuming_.

“I still fucking hate him, _don’t_ worry!!” Lieb shouts, loud enough for the fucking _engineers_ to hear, on the opposite side of the campus. “Him and his fucking delusions of magnificence!”

“Well fuck you!” Webster is _really_ angry- neck veins, clenched hands, the lot, as he hoists himself to his feet, “I thought I’d heard differently, but you know _what_ , that must be my fucking self-esteem! Unlike _you_ , you piece of shit!”

“Much better!” Bull crows and stalks off, dusting his hands, _job done_ , while the war rages behind him. _Fuck_ , he puts his foot in his mouth , but he’s really _really_ good at walking away from the damage.

“Oh, so I don’t have self-confidence?!” Liebgott squawks, meeting Webster eye to eye at center stage.

“Among other things!”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean!!” Webster’s response at first is to push right up into Lieb’s space- which he’s fully on board for –and then to shove him hard in the chest, forcing him back, forcing the air out of him in more ways than one. Liebgott comes right back, “Answer me, you _fuck_ , or I’ll kick you in the fucking _face_! What the fuck did you-”

“A sense of fucking _perception_!” Webster jerks his clenched fists up and back, making like he’s about to slam them directly into Lieb’s smirking face. To Lieb’s surprise, he finds himself flinching back, stepping away. Maybe it’s the shake in is nemesis’ voice. It could be the lack of burning in his gaze, or even the… tears pooling in the corners of Webster’s eyes, glistening, illuminating the invigorating sapphire with a glisten of unshed- “But I was fucking _mistaken,_ so forgive me for-! _Fuck you!_ ”

“Forgive you for _what_?!” Lieb screams, following Webster when he turns and runs, spins away to hide his face even after Lieb saw his first sniffles, the first tear splash onto his bright red cheekbones, the first rip in Webster’s ‘couldn’t care less’ armor, “What the _fuck_ do you have to be _sorry_ about! _Fucking_ …” Webster tugs his arm forcefully away from Lieb’s grasping hands, the sleeves slipping easily through his faint grip.

“I told you, Liebgott, I fucking _told_ you.” Kitty utters, point-blank lethal as she charges after Webster, shoving Lieb with the claw-like nails tipping her fingers to make sure he doesn’t follow, “If it means that much to you, I think you can say you’ve fucking _won_. Asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s O!


	5. And That's All I Wanna Do Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N I don’t even know anymore, I love this arc too much and it’s brilliant and goodbye  
> CH title from Troye's Talk Me Down asdfghjkl

***

 

**0159: If I play my cards right I could make the big time, I could be a reason to stay**

_0200: caught up in the spot light, shaking from the stage fright, how did i end up heeeere_

_0200: not that im complaining bc that song is calm af_

_0200: in the literal and also ship sense_

_0200: but what calls you to me on this troubled morn, friend ?_

**0200: I hate everythinggggggggg**

**0201: come on sing with me**

_0201: GASP he drops his punctuation how will i deal now i must be the well-versed one in this relationship_

_0201: ENGLISH SKILL HIT EM! One._

_0201: Two._

_0201: Three- ah fuck it i give up_

**0201: ?**

**0201: Lego Movie**

_0202: you always have capital letters and good punctuation_

_0202: fuck you man_

**0202: There’s this wonderful thing called autocorrect, and a less wonderful thing called I’m actually very uncoordinated**

**0202: I was just trying to get my point across with all lower case tiredness**

_0202: you don’t need to do that just to express your exhausted ass_

_0202: i never use it but i'm not always tired_

**0203: Yeah you are**

_0203: yeah yeah i am_

_0203: anyway you said something about singing what are we singing_

**0203: wE AAAAAAAAAARE**

_0203: wild! AMERICANA EXOTICA_

**0203: dO YOU WANNA FEEL A LITTLE BEAUTIFUL BABY**

_0204: i swear this has happened before ????_

**0204: Ed Sheeran ? Various 5SOS ?**

_0204: nah like this specific song_

**0204: Maybe in another life**

_0205: in an alternate universe where we actually know each other_

_0205: maybe go on a road trip_

_0205: maybe are wanted criminals_

_0205: or, like, escaped criminals of some sort_

**0205: One where you can’t talk shit like this and I’m the God I deserve to be**

_0206: oi fuck u never will you ever be a god hah_

**0206: I love yoooou**

**0206: If I’m a god then you’re my godly counterpart <3**

**0206: I’ll be ocean you’ll be fire and everyone will ship the fuck out of us**

_0206: just for that._

**0207: ?**

**0207: What are you up to this time?**

**0207: Please don’t kill me I said I’m sorry**

**0207: Well I said I love you but like. Come on pls**

**0208: Stop doing this you’re worrying me**

**0208: Okay okay I’m sorryyyyyyyyy**

**0208: I also love you though**

**0208: ????**

**0210: ?????????**

_0210: go to your window_

**0210: You don’t know where I live ?????**

_0210: doesn’t matter go to your window_

**2010: K**

_0210: u there ?_

**0211: What should I be seeing?**

_0211: ARE YOUATYOIRWINFOW_

**0211: Y E S**

**0212: hOKYERLYSHIGEL HOLY   S     HI T**

_0212: =DDDDDDDDD_

**0212: HOW DID YOU GET**

**0212: THI S IS AMASINGA**

**0212: WORDSCANOT**

_0212: shhh and watch_

**0215: cUZIMNO TLEAVI NG AYAYOOOO AYAYOOO-OOOOOO IM NOTR LEAVIGNN**

**2015: oohhHHHINOOO coMEFINDMEI MA  LOS TB BOY**

**2016: This is amaZINSg**

**2017: nnnnnnnnnnnnnHHH go ahead rip my heart ouuutttttttt that’s WHAT LOVES ALL ABOUT I WANT YOU TO WANT ME TO STAY AND I NEDE YIU TO ENDM TO STAY aaHAHH**

**2017: You’re incredible I’m dead**

_0219: <3_

**0219: <3**

 

***

 

“So, Malark?” Harry prods cautiously, here for Kitty and that’s it, he _swears_ he’s not going to make any trouble.

Bull is stressed. He interrogated Harry upon entry. It was terrifying, “Was that you and Muck blowing fireworks up last night?”

“Don’t tell any one.”

“Not to… not to be rude, but. You…. understand that basically everyone could see it? It _was_ in the sky.”

“ _No_ _shit_ , Haz. I mean don’t tell anyone it was _us_.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Hey, Malarkey?”

“ _Fuck,_ Harry, what?”

“Why Five seconds of Summer?”

“It. It was Lieb’s idea, I- shut the fuck up.”

“It just made Lipton really happy, was all. So. Yep.”

“Cool. Are you done?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is _wrong_ , I’m okay.”

“Where’s Muck-”

“ _Fucking-_ I don’t _know_ , Harry, why don’t you go find him for me!”

“I see.”

“…”

“…”

“He hasn’t been out in days.”

“He was out last night.”

Malarkey turns on him, expressionless.

“There’s a thing called a launch tunnel- oh, you know what, _nevermind.”_

“Out from where, but? Kitty said-”

“Fuck Kitty.”

“ _Hey_. That’s my-”

“Oh my fuck, would you _fuck off_?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go away-”

“No, ‘fuck off’ doesn’t mean ‘go away’! It means _fuck off._ You _will_ fuck off. _Off_ you will _fuck_.”

“Hey, I love that video-”

“ _Fuck. Off._ ”

Harry, thankfully, fucks off before Malarkey can punch his teeth down his throat, leaving the artist to stress and twist his hair around his fingers and ignore Toye shrieking for help as the sets collapse in flames behind him. Muck probably left one of his SRLF detonation charges back there, which causes Malarkey to sigh at the thought. He’d dealt with the creation process of those Short-Range Long-Fuse bitches of bombs; it ended in the two huddled in the corner of the basement as tiny explosions went off anywhere. Safe at a distance, but deadly and fiery if you’re within a meter of the napalm-based orbs. Then there was the time when Muck watched Up and tried to develop a translator for animals. Talbert’s dogs started to go missing one by one, and the man tracked them- honest to god tracked, footprints and sleuthing and all –down to the arts sub-station. Muck had, obviously, managed to craft a collar that relayed a comprehensible feed to a computer and was on the way to creating a vocaloid-like software to suit the dogs. He had to mind-wipe Talbert and discontinued his project for the time being. _Oh_ , and that one invention that recolored hair through pigment projection… they were thinking of trying to pitch it to Michael Clifford but Liebgott begged them not to, threatening that if it somehow killed him, Lieb would never forgive them. Muck was offended and sulked for days, only, a week after putting it in the ‘cabinet of crushed dreams’ [the ones that never make it to ‘the surface’], the contraption exploded and sent shrapnel everywhere, shards embedded at least ten centimeters into the solid concrete walls. _And,_ that other time, Kitty had very purposely _non-seriously_ stated that she’d always wanted a substance that automatically grows trees, like bone meal from Minecraft, so Muck-

“ _It’s working!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Baaaaaabe!!!”_

Muck _flies_ in to the hall- literally _flies_ , he’s wearing rocket boots –with a stack of ancient-looking parchment tucked under one arm.

“Well. That was fucking subtle.” Malarkey sighs, not even bothering to _try_ defending Muck’s probably illegal activities, having to catching the man when he squawks about not knowing how to slow the rockets. “ _What’s_ working?” As usual, when Muck enters the room shrieking indecipherably about an invention that is or isn’t going to plan, practice ceases. There are numerous bets: on what Muck’s building, on whether or not the school will come close to exploding _again_ , on when Muck and Malarkey are going to hurry up and confess their undying love. Speirs holds the largest bet of two hundred dollars on the latter- no, he’s _not_ trying to impress Lipton [he totally is] –for any time between opening night and two days prior. _It’s now or never_ , he thinks gleefully, _…or tomorrow, also, but- hopefully today._

“Baaa _aaabe!!!!!!”_ Muck yells again. He lands with a crack that almost breaks the floorboards, Malarkey’s arms still around him as he turns to face the tech booth, waving the papers over his head, his messy hair sticking out everywhere and blackened with what smells like gunpowder.

 _“Suuuup?”_ Babe drones, cautious, Gene’s giggle just audible over the intercom. _“What’re those?”_

And, okay, maybe at least a third of the hall’s occupants scream the meme in echo of Babe’s innocent inquiry. They all have issues, this much is abundantly clear.

“ _Proof_! Come down here and validate it!!” The speakers shut off with a crackle and a door slams, a set of heeled shoes and the slap of bare feet racing down stairs. Muck turns to Malarkey, finally, his ear-to-ear smile showing off the brightness in his eyes, the cleared doubt and tiredness, distracting from the shadowed bags under his eyes. “I _did_ it.”

Malarkey hums in response, whacking him gently upside the head. Muck beams impossibly more.

“What did you do?”

“I’ve perfected the equ-… Babe, what’s with the pumps?” Muck breaks off, leaning around Malarkey to observe as Babe and Roe sprint up onto the stage, Gene’s sunflower yellow shoes- likely to match her singlet -are being worn by the musician. In Muck’s personal opinion, the kid is _rocking_ them.

“Gene’s feet were sore.” It’s weird to hear Babe speak without his lisp, let alone the clack of wires. He’s not uncomfortable admitting so easily to wearing the high heels willingly, speaking in an almost challenging tone, as if he expects someone to judge. _As if_ any of them would.

“Why didn’t you just wear _your_ shoes?”

“Heels are surprisingly comfortable, man.” He states with a smile, spinning on the spot, a bit of fancy footwork thrown in. Everyone was convinced by the way he dashed down three flights of stairs and bolted along the aisle in the glossy heels, but Babe enjoys the attention. That, and it makes Gene giggle, which he’s always up for. “Now! What is this _proof_?”

“Feast your eyes.” Commands Muck in a pitiable Scottish accent, dignified and snooty as he holds out the parchments. Malarkey groans, hiding his face in his hands.

“ _Please_ don’t say that.”

“Gaze upon the-” Muck begins again, even though Babe has taken the papers, beginning to read the top one as though he’s expecting it to come alive and bite him. With Muck, he wouldn’t be surprised.        

“Muck-”

“Lark, stop interrupting me from _introducing_ : _behold_ , the magnificence, the breathtaking, the awesomeness, the-”

“ _These_.” Babe lets out in a loud, wheezing exhale. “These _aren’t_!” He freezes again, mid sentence, eyes bugging out of his head. He flips to the next sheet, screeches a little; flips to the next one, covers his mouth with a hand; flips to the next one, chokes on his own spit. “They’re _actually_. _Are._ ”

“Yep.”

“ _You_. _What_.”

“Uhuh.”

“ _Who_ did you steal these from?! Which museum?!! Take them back, take them back _now_!” Babe gabbles, shocked and stunned and terrified as he shoves the pages back at Muck, who merely smiles and keeps his hands firmly at his sides, cocking his head a little in hesitation. “I don’t want any part of this!”

“What are they?” Malarkey asks for what feels like the millionth time.

“ _These_ , my dear friends…” Muck drawls, lazily delighted as Babe goes over the pages again, unable to help himself. Gene, gazing over his shoulder frowns.

“Are a bunch of old-ass, smelly pieces of paper with squares and gold leaf illustrations?” She questions, conflicted and slightly disgusted, “How long were these in your _armpit_ , Muck? Did you _sweat_ all over them? Gosh, they-”

“ _You were carrying these priceless artifacts under your fucking arm?!!”_ Babe screeches, “ _What the fuck were you thinking?!!”_

“Uh, there are several royal guards chasing me with pikes _literally_ trained at my _butt_ and if I don’t run faster, one of them’s gonna go straight up my-”

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_! Artifacts?!” Bull interrupts, walking up to the four students, protective-dad mode on, “ _Priceless_?! Muck, what’s going on? What have we said about stealing?”

“I didn’t _steal_ them, Bully, I picked them up.” Everyone deadpans- from Bull standing right in front of him to Webster on the opposite side of the stage, one headphone in as he distractedly choreographs. “O _-kay_ , maybe I _stole_ them, but. I’ll never get caught-”

“Muck, we’ve been over this. That’s not the principle of stealing, you-”

“Because they are _originals_.”

He looks over at Malarkey, totally ignoring the two distressed men in front of him-

It dawns on Malarkey. His expression drops in shock, gaping and unable to breathe.

 _It worked_. Muck wouldn’t waste his time going to a museum, plus he’s convinced that breaking and entering is way too much effort _these days_ , in _this_ technological age, which can only mean…

“ _Exactly_!” Babe shouts, “Which museum, you’re taking these back _right fucking now_ , I can’t _believe_ you _robbed_ an institute just to show me original, _beautiful_ thirteenth century sheet music, I-”

“I didn’t do it for you.” Muck chuckles. Babe glares, and Muck wilts a little, “Entirely, I didn’t do it… _entirely_ , for you.”

“I don’t…” Malarkey stutters, not only apprehensive but flattered as well. Muck laughs at him, gazing fondly, stepping closer, crowding Malarkey’s mind with even more _what the fuck is happening_.

“Consider it an invitation.”

“An invitation _where_?!” Babe yells, “Muck, you’ve got some fucking _explaining_ to do-”

“Shit yeah,” Mutters Malarkey dazedly, “Let’s- let’s go.” Muck holds his hand out and Malarkey takes it, neither of them going anywhere.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, Muck.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“I _know_.”

“You shouldn’t… just,” He pauses, diverged, unsure of himself where he’s usually ecstatic, _insane,_ and insanely definite, “Want to because I’m-”

“ _Yes_ , Muck.” Muck’s uneasiness doesn’t lift, no matter how hard Malarkey grips his hands, despite his fervency. “Do we gotta check the fucking boxes?”

“Maybe we should.”

He’s staring at his feet, jaw clenched. Malarkey’s never seen him so nervous- he’s not sure if he’s ever been this nervous, either.

“On what grounds?”

Muck lifts his head, looks Malarkey straight in the eyes.

“I love you too much to let you put _your_ life at risk for something I’m doing.”

Malarkey ignores the way that makes his spine tingle, the way it sends shivers through every inch of his body, and shoots back with as much conviction:

“And I love you too much to let you put your own life at risk _without_ me.”

They stare at one another, half smiling, half grimacing, everyone else dead silent at their admissions… and also very, _very_ confused.

“Ooohhhhhh…” Hoots Spiers from the backstage area, “Just make out already.”

“Someone hit him for me.” Bull calls. The director nods solemnly after a loud, wooden thwack, and a ‘the _fuck_ , Toye!’ reverberates throughout the hall.

“Fifteen.” Malarkey chokes around a voice crack, “There’s probably more, but that’s all I can really….”

“Fifty…” Malarkey whispers, head bowed again, leaning nearer to Malarkey, “Thousand… Million…” Behind Babe, Gene is silently flailing and internally screaming at the pair; _no one_ , except maybe Liebgott and Kitty, knows how long she’s been waiting for this _fucking_ moment.

“Bullshit-” Malarkey calls him out teasingly, knowing exactly what Muck’s going to do, and _yes,_ Muck takes a huge breath, and:

“ _One_ : I’d stay here and not use it if you told me to. _Two_ : I’d blow up the basement if you told me to. _Three_ : I’d never forgive myself if you ever got hurt because of me, direct or indirect. _Four_ : I really love it when we run around holding hands, I don’t know if I could live without it. _Five_ : sunsets always remind me of you, they’re my favorite time of day. _Six_ : I don’t think I’d be able to carry on without you smiling at me every day. _Seven_ : same goes for the way you look at me, especially when you don’t think I’m looking. _Eight_ : my heart really hurts whenever you smile and I love it, it makes me feel alive and kinda normal and _not_ that android I tried to give some of my brain power and consciousness to so I had a _competent_ fucking lab partner because you know shit all about science. _Nine_ : I’d do anything to keep you alive, which is why home-brand time travel is kinda- ehh, not a very smart thing. _Ten_ : There isn’t a star in the sky I could take you to that shines brighter than the grins you give me, whether you’re amused or adoring or pissed off, even, you’re always beautiful. You’re fucking scary when you yell, though. You should stop doing that. _Eleven_ : You could ask to go anywhere and I’d take you, even if it were the end of the universe, because I love you further than even that. _Twelve_ : Wherever you are is where I feel safest, even when the entire fucking school is seconds from vaporizing and we’re the literal epicenter. _Thirteen_ : You actually take time to ask whether I’m just feeling _average_ crazy or literally losing my fucking mind insane, which is something I can’t say for my _other_ friends. _Fourteen_ : The care you show for me is something I’ve been able to learn and return to you, and you stuck with me while I learnt to do that, and I’m so fucking grateful you did because I’d probably still be an asshole sociopath if you hadn’t. _Fifteen_ : You knew I’d put you on the left console because I _hate_ you being on my right; I can’t hold your hand and have my good hand free, and you know how much of a control freak I am. Also your scar is fucking cute. _Sixteen_ : Your scar is fucking cute. _Seventeen_ : We-”

“Fucking _kiss_ , I want my money!”

“ _Se-ven-teen_.” Muck growls, shooting Spiers’ direction a glare. The ghost-ish boy flips him off; neither of them can see one another, and no one is looking at Spiers right now. Does that stop him? No fucking way. “We already act like an old married couple, all our friends think we should date, everyone else thinks we _are_ dating or at least fucking on a semi-regular basis, so no pressure, if you don’t want to, but if you do then you should kiss me, like, now. Please.”

“Smooth improvising, Mucky.” Malarkey murmurs.

“You shut your mouth, demented fucking _songbird_ -”

“Stop calling me that-”

“Just kiss me, you _fuckwit_.”

The second they lean in, the hall explodes in uproar, band kids high-fiving, the actors hooting and cheering and chest-bumping. Winters showers purple confetti from the over-head beams, Webster blasts Runaways and Lipton fanboys excessively over both the punk-rock music and the kissing boys on stage; Spiers leaps out from backstage and skids across the smooth surface of the stage, screeching:

“ _Yes_ , _bitch_ , _yes_ , pay _up_ , you _motherfuckers_!” He’s got a bloody nose and a distinct, rectangular _dent_ between his eyes. Muck and Malarkey look at each other, wide-eyed and marginally weirded out by the descent of madness around them.

“Let’s go, let’s leave right now.” Muck demands, poking his fingers at Malarkey’s cheeks. Somewhere in the room, someone coos. Muck stops, a little more weirded out.

“Won’t we miss opening night?”

“ _Time. Machine_. You _idiot_.” Muck rolls his eyes, yet he’s beaming and clapping his hands excitedly, eyes glinting. “Meaning we could be _forever_ and back, and arrive in time for Assassins Creed. Granted, we may be, like, fifty, because laws of time are kinda relevant and all...”

“Perfect-”

“No, _no_!” Babe protests, stepping in, “ _Not_ perfect! We’re all forgetting one very important thing- Muck _stole_ \- _wait_ did you say _time machine_ -?!”

“Fuck!” Muck yelps.

“They’re on to us!” Malarkey follows up, both sporting gigantic smiles.

“Run!” Muck grabs for Malarkey’s hand and the pair bolts for the doors. Bull doesn’t even _try_ , he really doesn’t even know why he _bothers_ anymore, heading into the seats to get a good view of the pandemonium of dress rehearsals.

No one has their costumes on, but. He likes to think he’s prompt, fuck the reality of his situation.

“Are they for real?” Babe whispers to Gene, scanning over the neume papers he’s still holding in his jittery hands.

“Dude, who the fuck knows, this is Muck and Malarkey we’re talking about. For all we know, they could be planning world fucking domination. Or, like, figured out how to turn in to butterflies, like, don’t even worry.”

“Should… should I take these somewhere?” He waves the ancient papers gently.

“Home?” Gene giggles, fawning over Babe’s awe-frozen expression.

“Can- but…”

“Do you _want_ to keep them?” Babe nods his head vigorously at this, “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think Muck stole them, Babe… at least, not from somewhere in _this_ era.” This only confuses the poor ginger more. Gene backtracks somewhat successfully, “ _Probably_. Who cares? _I_ don’t. Let’s go nap.”

“Plan.” Babe responds, absorbed in reading over the early notation techniques as Gene guides him back to the tech booth.

“Okay- _okay_ , _children_! Playtime is over! Back to practice, we’ve only got _one_ more day!!” Bull shouts, watching on, _impressed_ as everyone actually heeds his words and gradually return to running through lines, stepping through dances, organizing props, practicing cues… then there’s Webster.

_“Take off your shirt and lay down…”_

All he’d been doing for the past few practices is either full-out performance practice, or dancing. As a collective group of thirty to forty students who live for gossip and are scarily close to one another, they know _exactly why._ No one wants to deal with the burning set, though, so they all continue to rehearse, keeping an eye on the dancer- even Toye, who should technically be extinguishing the miniature blaze.

_“You were the answer that I had… but you weren’t all I wanted, you weren’t all I needed, oh…”_

“Go talk to him, Lieb.” Kitty prods. Behind him, several people wave their hands to catch her attention and get her to stop; she’s poking a sleeping bear with a twig. No one needs that; _no one_ wants to deal with this shit today. Least of all Bull, who’s blissfully unaware, chatting with O’Keefe about the lighting and what they should relay to Harry and his small army of AV first years that’ll man the tech booth while Babe’s in the orchestra pit.

“Kitty, _no_.” Liebgott keeps his eyes trained on Webster’s delicately curling body as he twists and swings to the music, “I’m _done_ with him.”

“You can’t be done if you never even started-”

“No.”

“Lieb-”

“ _Fuck him_ , I _hate_ him, he’s the worst fucking human being I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, now leave me be!”

“ _What_ did you say?!” Webster storms over to the two, pausing his music- more accurately, he storms over to Liebgott and trips on the cord connecting his phone to the speakers, breaking both the connection and the speaker when it falls off the chair.

“ _Guys_ , guys-” For once, Kitty resembles a slightly apologetic friend. Lieb knows not to fall for it though, not any more. If she and Web want to gang up and fuck with his emotions, he won’t let himself be so easy.

“Oh, _I’m_ _sorry_ , am I not allowed to fucking _speak_ without your permission?!” Lieb snarls in his true, characteristic fashion, “Fairly sure you didn’t give a _fuck_ about me, not like you give a fuck about _most_ things-”

“Rich, coming from such an indecisive little _bitch_ -”

“I’ll fucking-” He goes to swing at Web, who ducks, scowls, and towers over Liebgott, menacingly cracking his knuckles.

“You did _not_ just-”

“Hey!!” Bull thunders, “What the _hell_ is going on over there?!!”

“We’re just _practicing_!” Webster screeches, to Lieb’s surprise. He took the words right out of his mouth.

“For the _divorce_ scene?! _Christ_ , guys, opening’s not for another night, _save it_.” The director is watching on, neither boy listening as they start up again, hissing at each other, beginning to circle, “I _mean_ it! Save it!!”

“Fuck you-”

“Fuck _you_.”

“I hate you.”

“I can’t _wait_ for this fucking thing to be over!”

“And that’s why you should stay in your fucking major!”

“ _Excuse me_?!!”

“You heard me- you are _not_ an actor, you can’t sing for shit!! Get. The. _Fuck_ -”

“ _Liebgott_! Get to the tech booth now, or get out of my fucking hall! _Webster_! Get backstage or same fucking consequence!! I can’t deal with one more fucking _second_ of your _incessant_ _bitching_!”

Liebgott glares at Webster, waiting for him to walk away first. All Webster does is glower, raise an eyebrow.

Lieb can’t stop himself:

“ _Still a better singer than you_!”

“You’re speaking _shit_!”

“You’re _full of shit_!”

“A’ight, fucking _go me_ , you pretentious dickbag-”

“That’s _it_ , both of you _out_!! Stay in your fucking _dorms_ or your _fucking dance studios_ until tomorrow night, lord fucking knows you’re over-prepared!” Once again, neither move. “Now!!

 

***

 

_0501: aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA sORRY IVE SPENT THE ARVO SCREAMIBG I LOVE UU_

**0501: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA??!!!!!!! LOVE YOU TOOOOOO WHY WE BE SCREAMING**

_0501: i hATE HIM SO FUCKING MU C H_

**0501: AAAAAAADSFGHKJL Y E A IM DOWN FOR THIS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA**

_0501: I’m going to kiLL_

**0501: NO HOMOCIDE**

**0502: Maybe we could plan our murders together actually**

_0502: i'm just ._

_0502: hhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH_

**0502: GOD. I FEEL.**

_0502: caN WE JUST_

_0503: take a moment to realise_

_0503: what’s happening_

**0503: Alright double homicide sounds good where should we meet**

0504: _oh you’re my favorite_

_0504: my favorite favorite_

_0504: my favorite human_

**0504: Sure**

_0504: did you know favorite is leibling in german?_

**0505: Why must you pester me with such inane knowledge?**

_0505: because it’s synonymous for darling_

**0505: And that’s important why?**

**0505: Is it because I’m your darling?**

_0505: ……………. yeah_

_0505: can i go hide now pls_

**0506: You’re too much**

**0506: I’m now happy oh god but I wanted to slowly rot away with my burning hatred for this boy**

_0506: speaking of_

_0506: like_

_0506: maybe we hate the same dude_

_0506: bc this guy is like_

_0506: h o w_

_0507: do you even exist_

_0507: without getting punched in the face daily_

**0507: Wait are you talking about me or the other guy**

_0507: nononnoonon i love you you’re great i hate this other guy gDS JNGSK:ae_

**0507: Maybe they are the same person ?**

_0507: what’s the name of yours?_

**0508: … Should I tell you?**

_0508: uuhhhhhh ?_

_0508: yes ? i thought we were planning dual homicide here_

**0508: DUDE I WAS KIDDING**

_0508: sorry sorry i just. my friends… are_

_0508: my friends_

_0508: anyway_

**0508: How about we wait until the music presentation to meet and scream about them and also music**

_0509: man i am so pumped for that ofmg_

**0509: Yeah I have a friend with a piece in it- a feature one, actually**

_0509: …sam e ?_

**0509: There’s…**

**0510: You do realise there’s only one feature piece…**

_0510: uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu ????????  
_ **0511: Oh god**

 

***

 

“Babe! _Babe_! Babe!”

_“What’s wrong with you, Webster?”_

“Do you know-”

_“No really, what’s wrong with you!! I am one room away, it’s five in the morning, you’re performing tonight, and. It’s been a long day!”_

“Babe! Listen to me!”

_“Dude don’t do this to me now, Gene is over.”_

“This is a live or die situation!”

_“Christ. What’s happening this time?”_

“Do you know anyone who is obsessed with Five Seconds of Summer?!”

_“Um. Lipton? The only person I can think of other than Lip is-”_

“No. No, it can’t be Lipton. Lipton’s too soft.”

_“He would punch you if he heard you say that, dude.”_

“He’s my mum, he wouldn’t.”

_“Well, the only other-”_

“How about someone who…”

_“Other than-”_

“Who has really fucked up friends?”

_“Okay, that really narrows it down-”_

“Come on, how about-”

_“No, I wasn’t being sarcastic, Web, I know who you’re-”_

“Nah, fuck off, okay, small-ish and kinda lanky?”

_“Dude.”_

“And I think dark-haired? I saw some hair in a picture of all these like. Dogs.”

_“Dude, oh my god.”_

“Maybe I’m overanalyzing everything.”

_“You know Talbert and- fucking hell, are you seriously this dumb?”_

“Rude? Excuse you? Maybe it’s Kitty. Oh! Maybe she’s trolling me! What a bitch, one sec.”

_“No, Web, don’t hang u-”_

 

***

 

_“Kitty! Kitty! K-”_

“I’mma chop your fucking dick off, Webster, what do you want?!” She screeches, pausing an episode of Carmilla that was playing through the TV; Lieb had nerves for the performance tomorrow- _today, fuck_ -so she decided to stay up with him. She’s not nervous. Kitty Grogan does not get stage fright. On the cushion next to her, Liebgott snorts.

_“If that’s Liebgott-”_

“Yeah, it is. Problem?”

_“Punch him for me?”_

Kitty lashes out, knuckles bruising bicep tissue.

“ _Ow_!! Holy shit!”

_“Thank you.”_

“Pleasure, darling.” Liebgott thumps her right back, but she only huffs out in exasperation. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

_“Everything.”_

“What an idiot.”

 _“Shut up, Liebgott.”_ Kitty and Webster say at the same time, “Gimme a sec, let me go to my room.”

She gets up and goes to her room, thunking Lieb with a pillow multiple times in passing. “Now, what’s going on?”

_“It’s about my mystery text person.”_

“We’ve discussed this, I- um.” _No_ …. she realizes with a start, shutting her door a little too loudly, _Webster and I have never… it’s Liebgott I always… wait._

_“What? What’s going on?”_

“Wait.”

_“Kitty?”_

“Nope. No. No fucking-” She starts to cackle, loud enough to make Spiers groan and throw his stress ball around, and annoyingly enough that the people below them get up on their dining room table and punch their ceiling.

_“Kitty?! What’s wrong!”_

“You’re telling me that-”

_“Yes?!”_

“That you have a-”

_“An anonymous text person, yeah!”_

“You- fuck, this-”

_“Kitty! Help!”_

“This is too good, don’t say I never did anything for you- wait!”

_“I’m not going anywhere, I need your help!”_

“Who gave you the number?”

_“Winters?! But it was an accident-”_

“Never ever _ever_ say that boy doesn’t do anything for you, Web, mark my words. _Fuck_!”

“ _Exactly, fuck, Kitty, I think I love him!”_

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure he loves you, too!”

_“Kit this is no time for laughter! Stop joking around!”_

“Okay, okay, I’m- oh, dear sweet jesus lord and mary above,” She calms herself, barely, “Tell me about him…” She chuckles a bit, “And I’ll see what I can do.”

_“Well, apparently he’s kinda short and lanky-”_

“Oh- _ho_ my _god_!!! Web!”

_“Shut up!!”_

“K-keep. Keep going, fuck.”

_“And he really likes Five Seconds of Summer…”_

“Holy crap. Just. Holy-”

_“And I think he lives in your building, because he sent me a picture of dogs. Tal’s dogs”_

“Fucking shit, I can’t believe this is happening.”

_“I know, it’s nuts. I… and we both have this person we hate and we yell at each other about them, it’s amazing-”_

“Oh. My god, oh my sweet fucking- No!” She’s gasping for air, completely unable to comprehend that Joseph Liebgott, her best friend who hates the guts and very _concept_ of David Webster, is texting a guy whom he adores. And _now_ , she gets a call- at damn fucking near _sunrise_ –from the very man her best friend hates, claiming he has an _identical_ person who he texts and is also, to some degree, in love with. “You have got to be _shitting_ me.”

_“Yes! I mean- no, I’m not shitting you, yes, and-”_

“Web?”

_“What?”_

“I’m gonna go. I’m gonna go, and you’re going to think long and hard about what we’ve just. Yep. Okay. I’m gonna _go_.”

_“Kitty, don’t leave me like this.”_

“When am I ever wrong, Web?”

_“A… quite a few times, actually-”_

“Then trust me when I say: this will _all. Work. Out.”_

_“B-but I-”_

“Worry not. Good night.”

She hangs up, hurrying back out to Liebgott, the small- _hah, kinda short and lanky_ , she thinks humorously –man glaring daggers at her.

“Are you two done having phone sex?”

“I thinks you’re jealous.”

“I’m so not.”

“Me thinks you is!”

 

***

 

_“Spiers!”_

“How did you get my number?”

_“Do you know a guy-”_

“Webster. It’s Liebgott. It has always been Liebgott.”

_“It is fucking not, I swear, this is another one of Kitty’s fucking tricks, you need to help m-”_

“I _shit_ you not, it is Joseph fucking Liebgott, now leave me alone.”

Spiers pegs his phone in the same direction as his foam stress ball. Only problem is, where his stress ball bounces back, his phone does not.

“That’s bad for the phone, Car.” Lipton whispers, eyes still closed, a soft smirk crinkled alongside the sheets, shadowed by the beginnings of a beard.

“Sorry. Sh, go back to sleep.”

“Sun’s up soon, can’t be fucked.” Lipton yawns and stretches his arms up, “Who was that?”

“Webster.” He snorts, tentatively laying his head on Lipton’s broad chest, sighing in relief when a pair of strong arms come down around his shoulders. Lipton puffs indignantly, Spiers’ stomach flipping at the feeling of the body below him rising and rippling with power.

“Wanna go for a run?”

Spiers smirks, burrowing himself down a little, perfectly content to remain in someone’s arms and ignore the dominative press of the universe rather than in the wings of the wind, sprinting through the nature park aimlessly to avoid the inevitability of pointless living.

“In a bit.”

 

***

 

On opening night, everyone is getting ready.

It’s opening night.

It’s fucking _Opening Night._

And in saying _everyone_ … _nobody_ is okay and nothing is on schedule.

O’Keefe’s wig got caught in the only hairdryer in the building, so Kitty has had to dash back to the flat and get Spiers’. Luckily, the fire it caused was contained to a single makeup table.

Not only is Luz taking the orchestral tuning way too far, but he also conspired with Harry to play the dubstep remix of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons intermittently over the loudspeakers. And by conspired, yes, he means blackmailed.

Web and Lieb are having a glare-off that’s interfered by Lipton: rushing over to Spiers and shouting ‘do you want to go out with me’ to be heard over the top of the tuning orchestra just as they stop, and it’s really _really_ loud so everyone hears and laughs but Spiers just bundles him in a hug, whispers ‘yes, yes, please’, his breath smelling like mint instead of ash.

So basically, the term _everyone_ extends to all but Lip [who is already dressed as Action and ready to go], Luz [Babe thwacked his first violinist on the head with the flute Martin threw him], O’Keefe [he never actually _needed_ a wig, Toye merely suggested it], Kitty [she decided changing as she dashed between buildings was a good idea and now has a black eye and no skin on her right forearm, to Popeye’s dismay- luckily, he’s the greatest makeup artist in all history and has her fixed up in seconds], and Webster and Liebgott [who are completely prepared but can’t keep their eyes off one another… in the _murderous_ way, not the loving way].

Web and Lieb give one another final glares.

**1942: How do I stop myself from murdering this shit…**

Webster types on his phone as Lieb goes over the script one more time- that is, until his phone goes off in his back pocket. He misses the way Web frowns at him as he reaches for the phone and pulls it out- when he sees the contact name, he smiles blindingly and unlocks it, starting to reply in earnest. Of course he doesn’t miss Webster’s gaze, rife with what looks like _jealousy_. What the fuck are they doing. He’s gotten this far though the production without breaking, so what’s a week of performances? The only time they really need to see each other is on stage; plus, they’re nemesis, everything works out for the best there. Other than that, Web can go fuck himself, for all he cares.

Webster’s phone is on silent [because ‘we’re in a fucking _theater, show some damn respect’_ he’d growled at Liebgott on more than one occasion that night], and the second Lieb puts his phone down, he receives a new text.

_1943: same omf ready to tear this fuckin asshat a new one, mark my words i will beat his ass_

_1943: also, my own, help, i'm so fucking nervy_

He texts back:

**1943: Awh that sucks, man. I’ll hold him, and you punch. What’s up?**

To Webster’s chagrin, Lieb’s phone goes off again- the boy picks it up, smiling softly. _Now_ , Webster’s pissed beyond reason.

“Would you turn that fucking thing off before I _break_ it?!”

“Sorry, my _lover_ is texting me.”

“I hate you so fucking much.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Web.” Liebgott sneers as he begins to type, “It’s pretty fucking mutual.”

Webster’s phone lights up with a new text. Three, in fact.

_1944: dw about it_

_1944: actually yeah_

_1944: do you think you could send me more happy stuff_

**1944: Are you okay?**

Liebgott’s phone buzzes with a text and, Webster’s jaw drops a fraction, leaning back in his seat instead of acting on his threat like Lieb expects.

“…No.”

Lieb glares at him- as if he’d ever stopped –and types something else out on his phone. As soon as he stops, Webster’s phone notifies him:

_New Text: 1944: LOVE: i'm actually five seconds away from strangling this guy_

**1944: Wheer ate you?**

He texts back, hardly watching the keys… nothing is really registering, making sense, because in every pause between texts, Liebgott is furiously texting; and after every new message Web gets, the boy is glaring over at him.

_1944: you know what, fuck it_

_1944: fuck everything_

_1944: i really like this guy_

_1944: and i cant help iiiittttttt i cant stand it i need to do something_

Webster has to be sure.

**1944: You**

**1944: Hey**

Two dings. Two new text on Lieb’s phone-

Web’s not sure whether it’s to convince himself _otherwise_ or to give himself total assurance…

**1944: R**

**1944: G**

**1944: C**

**1944: 8**

**1944: K**

One, two, three, four, five.

“No.” He whispers aloud to himself, “No _fucking_ _way_.”

In the background, Bull starts his speech for the opening night, but Web can’t hear anything except the tri-tone of Lieb’s phone as he sends random letter after random letter and watches as Liebgott gets more and more confused. “ _No_.” Webster gets up, stalks over, grabs Lieb’s phone whilst throwing his own onto Lieb’s lap- “You’ve got to be shitting me…” He reads over quickly just to make sure, and:

_New text: 1944: <3 Liebling: Hey_

_New text: 1944: <3 Liebling: R_

_New text: 1944: <3 Liebling: G_

_New text: 1944: <3 Liebling: C_

_New text: 1944: <3 Liebling: 8_

_New text: 1944: <3 Liebling: K_

“Fuck-”

“Give me back my _fucking phone_ , you phycho!”

With all his might, pent up for months and _months and fucking months_ , he throws Liebgott’s phone over his shoulder- much to Lieb’s annoyance, _hell_ yes -and, giving Lieb barely enough time to register the big picture, Webster’s straddling him and kissing him. Lieb pushes him back, but not after nipping at Web’s bottom lip and groaning into his mouth, clashing their teeth together in a painfully awkward way.

“ _What_ \- was that for?! You better have a real fucking good justification!”

“ _Liebling_ , huh?”

“Get fucked.” Webster hunches over to bite at Liebgott’s lips again- only because Lieb pulls him down by the back of his neck.

“Uh, _‘Ashton Irwin the literal second coming of Christ and I want him to fuck me in the ass’_?”

This time, Liebgott is laughing.

“ _Get._ _Fucked_.”

Web smirks, pouting against the soft press of Liebgott’s mouth.

“Are you actually going to beat me up, because I have no doubt I’ll give you a run for your money-”

“Do you now?”

“Better fucking believe it, _Liebling_.”

“You don’t even fucking know what that means, do you.” Lieb knows he does, Lieb realizes he knows everything, _they_ know a shit tonne more than they ever needed about each other. This whole situation is _fucked_.

“German for ‘giant pain in my ass’?”

“Darling.”

“Close enough?”

“Close enough.”

“This is nuts.” Web whispers, half-recognizing the silence period between Bull’s speech and the orchestral introduction.

“You’re telling me!!” Lieb shouts and whelp, there goes their restraint.

“You’re _adorable_!”

“I will _fuck_ you up, you _bastard_!”

“Bring it, you short piece of _shit_!!”

“I’m gonna fucking _kiss you_ if you don’t _-_ ”

“Oh, so is this what our flirting is like now!?”

“Yes!”

“Yes?!”

“Yes!!”

“Good!”

“ _Would you two_! “ Kitty is screaming, at her stage left position, the orchestra silent, the crowd silent, Bull laughing his ass off being the _only_ _sound in the place_ other than the echoing out shrieks of Webster and Liebgott, “Get your _making out asses_ onto the _GOD DAMNED STAGE?!_ ”

“It’s not my fault Web’s a _shit-ass showman_!”

The crowd gasps.

“Hey, like you can _fucking_ _talk_ , bitch-baby!”

More gasps, a scandalized yelp.

“There are _old ladies_ in the audience, gentlemen,” Bull is positively cackling, huffing through his tears of mirth, “ _If_ you please!!”

 

***

 

**2029: I’m coming because IIIII need to find you, is anybody theeeere**

_2029: who can rescue- somebody like meeeee but iiiiii'm just waiting for somebody like you_

**2020: Somebody like you**

_2029: Without_

**2029: You**

_2029: i'm_

**2029: A**

_2029: LOST_

**2029: BOYUOHL:JUK**

**2030: Right now it feels like we’re bleeding- so deep that we may not get back up**

_2031: oh, so this is y i was ‘pretty when i'm mad’ huh ?_

**2031: Troye Sivan has a way with words**

**2031: Or Zedd. Whoever wrote it**

**2031: What was wrong with us, seriously**

_2031: youre literally in my lap_

**2031: You literally just made out with me because I sent you 5SOS lyrics**

_2031: youre literally in my lap TEXTIGN ME when you could be makiNG OUT W ME_

**2032: I know I know**

**2032: <3**

_2032: <3_

“I love you, I think.”

“Cool story, bro, needs more dragons.”

“Seriously _fuck_ you, Web.”

“I love you, you piece of punk-pop trash.”

“You can fucking talk.”

“I think, out of the both of us, you’re the bigger fan. Not gonna lie, I mean, you turned up in a CALM singlet on the seconds day of rehearsal.”

“And you call _me_ thick.”

“Well excuse me, I was too busy staring at your ass and your pretty-ass face.”

“And this, friend, is why I’m the bigger 5SOS fan. I _hate_ your ass.”

“I’m gonna punch you.”

 

***

 

Opening night concludes with the final bows and Winters waves at Webster one last time before the curtain closes- he sends his text saying where he’ll be, when he’ll be back, and leaves, trusting Harry and Gene to organize pack up.

 

Through the car park, headphones on, through the intersection, two rights and the third left, two streets down. He remembers the way perfectly, an irreplaceable recipe to happy, warm outlooks and alleviations of stress. Larkson and Son’s is printed in flaking paint above the small door leading in to the animal shelter. Winters feels himself smile before he even unclenches enough to let his mood lift.

Passing old lady at the desk, he’s washed over with familiarity; a faintly perceptible sweetness in his heart prompted by a sunlit radiance in her eyes. She passes him a key without question, only a wizened:

“Good to see you back. Nix has missed you, you know.”

“I’ve missed her, too.”

“Not who I meant, dear.”

He’s already gone, though, speed-walking straight to the dog section, going up to his favorite: a mutt with ocher coloured, twine-like fur and twinkling blue eyes.

“You’re the best, Nix. My darling little girl, how are you? Want me to let you out? Yeah?”

The puppy bounds about behind the cage door, stubby paws rattling the lock as she whines and yips, elated to see him. He’s glad she remembers him. Or, at least, hasn’t lost her trust and unswerving faith in the niceness of humans. It’s a cruel world for a tiny runt, an unfair and cold world. She slips out before he’s got the gate properly open, worming around his legs and scratching her blunted nails on his jeans. Hefting her into his arms easily, Winters pets Nix as she licks his face, panting and yapping as though she’s attention starved. She probably is, considering the notice dogs with ‘mixed breed’ and ‘pound dog’ tags on their door get. Giving up on detaining the squirming puppy, he lets her down and gets on the floor with her, playing around with battering hands, her mouthing bites, gently whispering ‘pup, pup!’ to provoke her, setting her off into fits of yipping and bounding around him, snarling at his flailing hands as though they’re her mortal foes. He’s got his back is to the door and Nix patting at his shins playfully when he hears:

“I’m glad you came back.”

Turning on the spot, sliding Nix with him, Winters breathes out and fears he may never be able to breathe in again.

It’s the raven-haired man, free of whisky vapors, meekly babbling, “I’ve b-been missing you, you know.”

“I thought I’d...” He pauses, taking in the leather shoes, the new tie and blazer slung over his shoulder, the quiet smile gracing his still lazily shaven features. Some things never change, Winters guesses. “You look… You sound-”

“Yeah, I… My sister came in to town; she- she’s been helping me out, so I’m… Yeah. It’s all pretty… good. Kinda w-weird to talk without, well, you knew, didn’t you.” Winters nods, he _knows_ , he hasn’t forgotten the man stumbling on his syllables as the night came to a close, as his sobriety brought back the stilted speech he’d bemoan in perfect, poetic fluency with an empty bottle of 69 in hand. He is, however, slightly baffled. _Sister? You’re telling me this whole time, I have been avoiding him for no reason- no, I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t… then why didn’t I come back? Oh. Okay. Maybe Webster was right. Maybe I was a little bit jealous. God damn it, Winters._

“Your… sister?”

She was i-in a while ag-go, actually… when I s-saw you last. Heh.”

Winters nods, already joining the dots to through own deductions: the suit, the shoes, the less-ratty-than-usual hair, surprisingly neat, considering the time of day. He doesn’t need to dwell- it’s clear the man had moved on. That’s why he stands up to face him, indicating to the empty cage beside Nix’s; nametag ripped off, the cage stripped clean.

“Huxley’s gone, I noticed.”

“I… uh, I actually-”

“You adopted him?”

“A-and… and- oh _jeeze_ …” The man rubs the back of his neck nervously, eyes darting between the dog at Winters’ feet and Winter’ face, whose wide eyes and vulnerable, hurt expression worry him, “I thought you’d never be back, Wints, I’m- I-I… Nix, too.”

“You…” Winters jumps to logical conclusions, hugging the dog tighter to him, “You adopted Nix? Can… can I still visit her? Where do you-”

“No- I mean, my n- _name_ is Nixon. Lewis Nixon. I figured… that you’d- you’d never treat me like you’d treat the dogs-s… without pity a-and with uncond-dit-t-tional love, so I t-told you his name was Nixon so I could h-hear the way my name- and-d- I’m so, so sorry…” Nixon glares at his shiny shoes for a moment before looking at Winters, searching his face, hoping for _something_ , anything along the lines of forgiveness or just a general acceptance of his deceit.

“Nixon.” Winters whispers, staring him in the eyes, neither of them flinching away like they would have in the past, “Your name is Nixon.” The puppy, weaseling her way between Nixon’s legs and darting between Winters and the shorter man, barks when she hears her name, unsure who’s intending on petting her first.

“Y-yeah.” He shrugs, “Most people call me L-Lew, on account of… of my f-first name… being... Lewis…”

“I love it.”

Winters does what he’s been waiting to do for the past few months and takes a large stride forwards, swamping Nixon in a bone-crushing hug. Nix squirms between their feet and starts to gnaw at Lew’s new office shoes. Winters huffs a laugh, feels Lewis’ body shake silently in response.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahhhh I didn’t know how else to finish it but this is sappy and yeah <3 it’S DONE! AY!  
> If you guys want me to add anything like time travel adventures or more dogs or basically anything except for smut, just comment and ask and I’ll see what I can do [yes I see you kudosing and commenting and it makes my life, especially right now, love you all sososososo much for it]  
> But yeah. What a ride. I’ll go back and edit sometime soon. Thanks for sticking with this shit fight the whole way! \o/ it done! You done \o/ hopefully it’s the kind of shit fic you can go back and read again on a rainy day- metaphorically/literally –cuz be assured, a lot of real life shit-stupid dialogue went in to this [especially the music fangirling], so it’s a very fun and happy memory for me.
> 
> Once again, I blame Gene for all this shit and every time I sat down to work on this I thought of them and it made me smile a tonne so. Fuck you you dumb nerd, I don’t even know if you’ve read this but yeah ilyyyy <3<3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> AAA hopefully no one has Liebgott's number, psh.  
> This has become a 50k monster and I've never been prouder


End file.
